


no justice in photographs

by bringmoreknivez



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Band Fic, Basement Gerard Way, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, frank is a college student and buddies with ray and bob, frank likes to watch gerard doodle at the circulation desk and he gets all heart eyes, frank spends a lot of time in the library and gerard works there, gerard is clueless, idk more tags to come as i guess, mikey has a role i promise but saying that now will spoil shit lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmoreknivez/pseuds/bringmoreknivez
Summary: Frank, a psychology major, is in his third year of college and is roped into taking an art class by his advisor. Ray and Bob are his roommates (possible bandmates, too?) and Gerard is the cute student employee at the library who Frank likes to sneak glances at while he doodles. Frank doesn't know if he can balance a new band and a new crush simultaneously.Or, the one where Gerard offers Frank a little bit more than just help with his art project.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 53
Kudos: 126





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, I haven't written a fic in super long! But, I did just take a creative writing course at the university I attend and I'm stuck at home (like everyone else with this wild pandemic going on), so what better time to get back into flexing my creative muscles?
> 
> I don't know how long this fic is going to end up being, but I hope some of you guys end up sticking along for the ride and seeing what I have our boys get up to. Comments and kudos appreciated, and I hope y'all stay safe and healthy! :-)
> 
> Title of the fic comes from "Medicine Square Garden" by our one and only Mr. Frank Iero, of course.

_Art school_

_Colored hair_

_Too cool_

_For me but that’s fair_

_\- “Art School” by Remo Drive_

♡

Frank has no fucking clue how he’s going to survive this semester.

He gently presses his sneaker-clad foot down onto the brake pedal of his shitty, beat-up copper sedan (a hand-me-down from his father), slowly inching towards the first visible stop sign past the entrance to his college campus. It’s no small miracle that he’s made it all the way from New Jersey to Boston on a single tank of gas—this car is a shitbox, and a gas-guzzler to boot.

As he’s pulling into the resident lot outside of his dorm building, right in his yearly assigned spot, all he can manage to think about is that fucking art class he’s enrolled in this semester.

Shifting the gear to park, Frank is alert to Henry Rollins’ gruff voice echoing from his car’s tinny stereo (it needed major repair, but that was something Frank had neither the time nor the effort to really care too much about).

“ _You say that you’re my friend_

_But you’re one of them_

_You don’t want to see me live_.”

 _Ain’t that the truth_ , Frank thinks to himself as he gently thumbs the eject button, the disc for Black Flag’s _My War_ popping out in response. He can’t help but apply those very lyrics to his student advisor, who insisted that he take an art class to “broaden his academic horizons,” despite being a psychology major—one on a very clear path to his degree and a decent career as a social worker, if Frank did say so himself. 

Now, if only he didn’t have this art class to possibly (or, rather, _likely_ ) screw up the GPA he’d spent his first two years of college painstakingly working towards.

Reaching forward to grasp his keys in between his slender fingers, Frank switches the car off, its aged motor sputtering loudly a few final times before cutting to silence. Glancing to his left side, Frank realizes that Bertha (as he had affectionately named the old car) desperately needs a visit to the carwash. His driver’s side window is blanketed in specks of pollen and _God knows what else_ , but giving Bertha a bath would have to wait.

Hopping out of his seat and onto the scratchy asphalt of the parking lot, Frank slings his button-adorned backpack over one arm and pockets his keys. Straight ahead is the dull yet characteristically-gray bricks of his residence hall, and although the architecture of his college campus is drab and nothing but depressing, he can’t help but feel surges of excitement rush through him upon the idea of seeing his friends again. Jersey was a long way from Boston, that was for certain, and he wasn’t quite sure how he endured summer after summer without their companionship.

Frank knew he had an endless supply of boxes containing his belongings still residing in Bertha’s trunk, but he was sort of prone to not moving everything in on the first day anyways (something his roommates always badgered him about). He’d toss off that habit, but he wasn’t quite sure if this was the school year during which he would. Ray and Bob would have to deal with him borrowing their clothes— _as always_ —after he’d already dirtied the garments he managed to stuff into his small backpack. He’d been using it ever since high school, shoving everything from heavy textbooks to CDs into its many pockets, and it was beyond threadbare at this point, making it a real wonder as to how it hadn’t bit the dust yet.

 _Ray and Bob_. Frank was beyond ready for another semester with them. Ray and Frank had been rooming together since freshman year, and it was only this year that Bob decided to join their ranks, officially making their duo a trio. Bob was a pretty quiet, stoic guy, but his gentle nature was the perfect contrast to Ray and Frank’s often-crazed antics. They had met Bob in a math class last year, as sophomores, and became fast friends, and it soon became evident that Bob’s laid-back persona was more of a façade than anything once they got him to play Mario Kart with them (hint: Bob does _not_ take losing well, and is always intent on a rematch until he secures victory).

He was great to hang out with, and was an excellent drummer to boot, which made him an even-more perfect addition to Ray and Frank’s circle. The two had been jamming out together ever since they were freshmen, upon learning that they both _really_ liked the Misfits (Frank also couldn’t help but bring up that he and the band both hailed from the same state whenever he could, almost rubbing it in Ray’s face). They weren’t really thinking about starting a band, they just wanted to play the music they liked. Bob’s drumming offered the two guitarists just the rhythm they needed to serve as the backbeat.

Realizing that he had perhaps been idling in the walkway before the hall’s front doors for just a tad too long, Frank comes to his senses and resumes stepping forward. 

Shitty art class be damned, Frank was going to enjoy this semester as much as he could, and even if he had to fucking _drink paint_ to please his professor, there was nothing that was going to get in his way. He was sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, hey, another chapter. Thank you so much to everyone that has read, commented, and left kudos so far! As an amateur writer, I appreciate the feedback more than you all will ever know. This chapter is far longer than the first one, and Gerard finally makes an appearance in this one! Buckle up, folks. We're in for a ride.

The first day of Frank’s junior year was speeding by without much circumstance. The evening prior, Ray and Bob had somehow managed to coax Frank into unpacking _all_ of his boxes in a single night, perhaps because they enlisted themselves to help. A first, and a major miracle. In fact, the three of them each managed to be somewhat productive in unpacking their individual belongings and arranging their shared dorm suite, and the end results weren’t so shabby at all, in Frank’s humble opinion.

The first class of the day was Adolescent Psychology, with a professor Frank had taken classes with before and knew quite well, which (sort of) made up for the fact that it was held at 8 AM in a lecture hall halfway across campus. He arose that morning still sluggish and with a throbbing headache, but he wasn’t prepared to let that stop him—he downed two orange-hued ibuprofen pills with a swig of water and was on his way.

Now was the real test of the day, however.

Frank crept up to the cracked and paint-stained door of room 205 in the campus’ designated arts building. Peering through the streaky window on the upper half of the door, he gulps in a few breaths of air before lowering his fingers to the cool, harsh steel of the door handle. Other students are already inside, sitting in haphazardly-formed rows behind paint-splattered wooden tables, perhaps even worse for wear than the door. They’re chattering amongst themselves animatedly, and it’s at this moment that Frank realizes that he doesn’t really _know_ anyone in here. A commonplace occurrence when you take a course outside of your usual department, really.

Gently stepping through the doorway and making his way into the brightly-lit studio, Frank immediately spies someone he _thinks_ he’s seen before. He’s not sure though, but he’d swear he’s seen this kid before in the dining hall or something. He’s sporting black, thick-rimmed glasses that are barely visible below his long tufts of brown hair. And, he’s got on a Smashing Pumpkins tee shirt, emblazoned with the album artwork from _Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness_.

Frank decides to take his chances and claim the stool next to him, dropping his backpack to the worn tile floor with a short, barely-audible _thud_.

Slightly craning his neck to avert his eyesight towards his new neighbor, Frank parts his lips and what comes out is just above a light mumble. “ _Pssst_. Hey. I like your Smashing Pumpkins shirt.”

The other student, reacting in a manner that Frank can only see as being akin to a frightened bird, appears surprised, even _alarmed_ , that one of his classmates is attempting to strike up small talk with him. Yet, he seems pleased(?), Frank thinks, and the corners of his tightly-pressed lips begin to curl up—but not _quite_ enough to constitute an actual smile.

The other student adjusts in his seat slightly as if to better allow Frank into his line of sight, and he places a singular wide-palmed hand onto the wooden table before them. “Uh, thanks,” he murmurs, that strange (but somewhat endearing) half-smile still present on his lips. “I’m Mikey, by the way.”

 _He’s a shy one, that’s for sure_ , Frank thinks to himself. It was the same with Bob when Frank and Ray had first met him, but, after all, they were effectively able to crack him. Mario Kart makes a shit-talking monster out of _anyone_. Bob wouldn’t stop gloating for days.

Already formulating an evil plan to chip past Mikey’s quiet nature, Frank quips in response, “I’m Frank. Or, Sir No-Artistic-Talent, if you prefer.”

Much to Frank’s surprise, Mikey snorts loudly at this, eliciting a few sideways glances from their fellow classmates. Interestingly, too, this was apparently all Frank needed to butter Mikey up, and within no time, they’re chatting up a storm.

Frank informs Mikey of his dilemma, and he learns that Mikey isn’t really in this class by choice, either. He’s enrolled in it to fulfill a general education requirement, per recommendation from his older brother, a senior studio art major. He learns that Mikey himself is a sophomore, an English major who writes for the school newspaper. He has a girlfriend named Alicia who he loves very much that goes to Berklee College of Music across the city. He’s got a bad case of near-sightedness, hence the sturdy spectacles, and perhaps most paramount above all, he digs a lot of the same bands Frank likes.

The two boys’ conversation is cut short as their professor strides in, art smock at the ready on the very first day of classes. _Oh boy_. Frank’s body unconsciously stiffens at the idea of hitting the drawing board so early, but before his nerves can truly get the best of him, he dips a free hand into his backpack, retrieving a notebook that’s already been half-used.

Frank tears a sheet of lined paper out with a gentle _rip_ , and he scrawls a rushed note onto it before nudging it in Mikey’s direction: on it is a message containing Frank’s cell phone number, and an invite to join him, Ray, and Bob for pizza later in the evening. 

Peering out of the corner of his eye, Mikey gestures to Frank with a thumbs up to signal his response. After hitting it off so naturally with Mikey, Frank can’t help but ponder if this art class will be so bad after all.

♡

It was really that bad.

Frank’s suspicions at the beginning of the class period were proven true, much to his dismay, and Professor Armstrong almost immediately instructed his students to sketch out a drawing of “whatever came to their minds first.” A small task for the art majors in the room, but for Frank, it seemed, a mountain he had little to no preparation to conquer. He felt like he was scaling Mount Everest without a proper pair of snowshoes.

The first object that came to Frank’s mind was his beloved white guitar, which he had lovingly nicknamed Pansy, but, _how in the actual hell does one go about drawing a guitar?_ Frank gave it his best shot, making constant use of his pencil’s nubby, muted pink eraser. The dark, angry marks left behind by the pencil’s graphite were impossible to get rid of entirely, so that only amplified the amateur messiness of his sketch, and poor Pansy ended up looking more like a lonely giraffe inside a _very_ dusty enclosure at the zoo.

Professor Armstrong called Frank’s work “derivative” and lacking the “passion” and “imagination” that makes for brilliant artwork. Professor Armstrong said that creating art was like loving a beautiful woman: that you needed to truly love the craft in order for your product to show you love and beauty in return, like a flower fully blooming. Frank could almost gag.

This was going to be a long, _long_ semester.

Class is now officially out for the day, and Frank knows that if he wants to achieve any measure of success in this godforsaken art class, he’d better hit the books. Approaching the school’s library, set in the very same gray brick as every other building within a one-mile radius, Frank wonders if he has any recollection of the library possessing drawing instruction books in their collection. He wasn’t quite sure.

In tow, too, is the book on the French Revolution that he had borrowed for a history class he took last semester. The thing was probably close to six hundred pages long, and it was bound in a thick, hefty hardcover. A faint ache throbs dully in his upper back, his shoulder in pain from lugging it around all afternoon. _This book could seriously be used as a weapon_ , Frank thinks to himself.

Sliding in through the glossy automatic doors at the front of the building, Frank veers left to head towards the circulation desk. Drawing book or no drawing book, he had to rid himself of the long-overdue French Revolution book. He had neglected to return it before the end of the last school year, and he doesn’t even want to know how late he is to bring it back. The numerous vaguely threatening emails he had received from the librarians over the summer might be some indication, however. 

It’s almost unnervingly quiet as he paces through the hallways of the library, tall, proud stacks of books lining every shelf. The scent in here is musty and at some times nauseating, the smell of aging, yellowing books combining with the pungent odor of one of the librarians’ floral perfume of choice. Even if it seemed that the campus and, more largely, the city around him, were endlessly cycling through changes, the interior of this library was always a constant. It was almost antiquated, in a way, and exactly what one would envision the typical library to look like, smell like, feel like. For this reason, Frank likes it here.

Once exam season hits, like clockwork, Frank knows that the place will become totally mobbed, as it does year after year. For now though, he’s certainly indulging in the solitude. It’s as if he’s the only soul in the place—other than the staff, that is, and a mousy-looking girl with chestnut hair hunched over in a corner, furiously tapping away at her laptop’s keyboard.

 _Taptaptaptaptaptap_.

Upon approaching the circulation desk, Frank is shocked to see only one employee holding down the fort. The circulation desk is generally the busiest spot in the library, regularly flooded by an endless line of students looking to return books or obtain library cards of their own. For that reason, the library usually employs three to four workers at a time behind the desk to meet the student body’s frequent needs.

That’s not the case today, though.

The person sitting on the solitary rolling office chair behind the smooth black marble of the desktop is only identifiable by their long mass of dark hair, equal in shade to the material covering the desk. They’re hunched over in a position that Frank doubts is comfortable (or conducive to good posture) with a colored pencil gripped firmly in their hand, poring over some kind of doodle. The rest of their colored pencils are spread out over the rest of the desk in a chaotic manner, and Frank doesn’t even think that they noticed him approaching. 

Frank decides to give it a moment. He taps his foot on the carpeted floor gently, glancing downwards and taking note of its intricate pattern. _This carpet looks like it’s been here since the 80s_ , he thinks, with its swirls of paisley and multi-colored polka dots. The tapping of his foot is just nearly in time with the clicking of the mousy girl’s keyboard.

 _Taptaptaptaptaptap_.

It now becomes evident that the employee is too enveloped in their drawing to even glance upwards and see Frank, so he utters a soft “ _ahem_ ,” hoping to make it sound as natural as possible.

At this, the employee jolts back to life, their head snapping upwards to meet Frank’s gaze. They’re startled, taken aback almost, and they immediately set their colored pencil down and shuffle their sketch to the side, the sound of paper crinkling becoming amplified in the noiseless library.

“Can I help you?” they ask, their tone of voice putting forward more confidence than Frank would expect from someone who looked like they just had a heart attack.

At that, Frank drops the French Revolution book onto the desktop with a _thud_. He raises his fingers to the book’s cover and drums on it, a coy grin forming on his lips. He’s hopeful that this employee will be none the wiser to the book’s overdue status. 

_Taptaptaptaptaptap_.

“I’d like to return this book, please,” Frank responds, sliding the book forwards slightly, ensuring that it’s within the employee’s grasp.

The employee’s hazel eyes rapidly scan over the book’s faded cover, and then they pick it up gingerly, as if not to damage it. Frank thinks that the book is probably old enough to belong in the university’s archive. They open the book’s front cover in search of the miniscule barcode sticker placed on the inside, and they squint their eyes at it while reaching for the handheld scanner attached to the circulation desk’s outdated desktop computer. The book’s cover creaks, and the employee aims the scanner at the sticker. _Beep_.

“May I see your library card, please?” they add curtly.

Before shuffling around in the pocket of his jeans to fish out his wallet, Frank glances downwards at the employee’s red flannel shirt to catch a glimpse of their nametag. _Gerard_.

Gerard seems to be waiting expectantly for Frank’s card, so he seems relieved when Frank finally forks it over. It only took a few minutes of sorting through wadded-up dollar bills and gum wrappers to find it.

Gerard then utilizes the same scanner to read the barcode on the back of Frank’s card, and upon doing so, his eyebrows arch quizzically. He returns his gaze to Frank, his expression still rather bemused.

“I hope you do know this book is rather overdue…,” Gerard pauses to look back at Frank’s card, flipping over the flimsy piece of plastic in his hand. “Frank.”

 _Shit_. _Shitshitshit_. His cover was blown. This Gerard kid was better at his job than Frank hoped he would be. Time to dial up the charm.

Frank wills himself to elicit a soft chuckle, one that he anticipated Gerard not keying into the falsehood of. Re-situating his arm to lean more casually against the cool, unforgivingly hard marble of the desktop, Frank looks down at the heavy book in Gerard’s hands, and then back up at Gerard himself. “You know, that seemed like a pretty cool drawing you were working on there.”

Gerard huffs at this, and Frank is ninety-nine percent sure he catches the employee rolling his eyes. _Motherfucker_. Gerard delicately settles the book back down onto the counter and subsequently brushes some loose strands of dark hair away from his eyes, which are once again narrowed in suspicion.

“Thanks,” Gerard blurts out in a tone that Frank _knows_ is laced with sarcasm. He briefly glances back at his drawing, pushed aside to the farther end of the desk, but then he snaps his eyes back forwards to meet Frank’s in no time at all. “But that’s not gonna work on me. I like my job. We all have to put bread on the table somehow, you know?”

Frank, still, is dumbfounded. He doesn’t even get a chance to formulate a clever reply before Gerard is speaking again, his voice soft yet stern. “But, the boss isn’t in today. So, I’m not gonna be a hardass on you. Consider your life saved—I deserve a spot in your will now.”

Well, Frank doesn’t really have his charm to thank for saving his skin this time, but he relishes in the small victory anyhow. He allows himself to audibly breathe a sigh of relief, a gesture that Gerard raises an eyebrow at. Now, he won’t have to pay late fees up the ass, and he can put that extra cash towards something perhaps more important: a trip with Bertha to the carwash or tonight’s pizza trip.

Crisis Number One averted.

Gerard is probably expecting him to get out of his sight now, Frank thinks. Gerard was far kinder and far more helpful than expected, however, so he lets himself ask for Gerard’s assistance one last time.

“By, the way, before I get out of your hair,” Frank begins, his expression cool once more. He hesitates and absentmindedly begins tapping on the floor with his toes again. _Taptaptaptaptaptap_. “Would you mind telling me where I can find art books? Like, ‘teach yourself how to draw’ books?”

Gerard nods, and fiddles with his nametag, readjusting it to make it less crooked on his shirt. Gerard then rises from his swiveling office chair, and it’s at this point that Frank notices not only their height difference, but how handsome Gerard is. Not in a classic, all-American, conventional type of way, but in almost a strange way. He’s got Frank by a few inches, and his messy black hair is in stark contrast with the pallor of his pale skin. Not lanky, but not stocky either. His eyebrows are thick, and this whole time have been knit together, as if in a permanent state of perplexity. 

“Yeah, I’ll show you,” Gerard says, stepping out from behind the desk and motioning for Frank to follow him with a single wave of his hand. He stops dead in his tracks before continuing to lead Frank down the halls, as if remembering he had something else to say.

“And oh, by the way,” Gerard starts, his previously-neutral face cracking into a grin. “Stop picking your nose. I don’t want boogers all over our nice art books.”

 _Oh_. Frank had been absentmindedly playing with his nose ring practically the entire time. _Oops_. It was sort of a habit.

But, at this point, instead of offering a retort like he usually would, Frank is more than happy to simply follow wherever Gerard leads him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it took me longer to update this time around. It was my birthday two weeks ago, and I decided to take a brief break from writing and just chill. I'll be going back to work in about a week, but I am absolutely planning on writing and updating when I can on my days off!
> 
> Anyhow, I hope y'all enjoy this next installment. This chapter is full of wholesome bro moments, and it was nice to include some more Ray and Bob in here. As always, thank you for all the kudos and comments, and happy reading!
> 
> Stay safe! xoxo

Frank can’t quite place his finger on why, but he’s feeling totally buzzed at the moment. Maybe it’s the coffee.

Large iced coffee in hand, the opaque plastic cup already dripping with cool condensation, Frank starts on the way from the Dunkin’ Donuts down the road from campus to Sal’s Pizzeria—the promised land. After a long, drawn-out day of classes, he was feeling famished. His stomach rumbles in anticipation of the gooey slice of pepper and onion pizza he’s going to be feasting on in a few minutes.

He had meandered to Dunkin’ Donuts after spending at least an hour or two in the library. He had plopped down into a loosely-stuffed lounge chair in the upper mezzanine of the building, notebook and newly-found drawing book on his lap, within an arm’s reach of the circulation desk. He couldn’t quite comprehend why, but in between each frustrated attempt at a sketch, Frank found himself looking back to where Gerard sat, who had continued on with whatever it was he was working on. He appeared to be far too focused to even notice Frank’s sneaky glances, but Frank could’ve sworn that he was caught in the act at least once.

 _Why am I like this?_ Frank thinks. _One cute guy is somewhat nice to you and helps you for five minutes and then you’re acting like the leading lady in a chick flick_.

Frank’s inner monologue is cut short when he feels a quick, rapid _buzz_ in the back pocket of his black jeans. He halts on the sidewalk for a moment, totally tuned out from the hustle and bustle of downtown Boston surrounding him, and digs his horrifically cracked iPhone out. It’s a wonder he can even still read text messages.

It’s a text from Mikey, the kid with the cool Smashing Pumpkins tee from art class. Frank glides his pointer finger across the touchscreen and squints to decipher the message in the intense sunlight.

_Mikey: hey frank, it’s mikey. i’m outside of sal’s pizzeria. wait for you there_

Frank lowers his phone from his face for a quick moment. The red and green neon sign hanging above the pizza joint is just within view, and he’s pretty sure he can make out Mikey’s tall figure in the distance too. He takes a sip from his beverage before typing out a reply.

_Frank: k, be there soon. i’m a few hundred feet away_

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, Frank resumes his stroll towards the restaurant, his pace slightly increasing. Beyond the promise of greasy food, Frank is purely excited to _truly_ hang out with Ray and Bob for the first time since the previous semester; the previous day had been devoted almost entirely to unpacking and settling back into campus life. He found himself genuinely hoping that they’d take a liking to Mikey. He was reserved, but again, hopefully the “Bob hypothesis” would also prove true in his case.

As Frank approaches the front door of the restaurant, he waves enthusiastically at Mikey, who glances upwards from underneath his glasses when he hears his new acquaintance come near. His face is plastered with that same strange half-smile that he was bearing during art class several hours ago. Frank can’t tell if he’s thrilled, anxious, _or_ really has to pee. Perhaps a combination of the three, given the repetitive tapping of his foot on the sidewalk. _Taptaptaptaptaptap_.

 _Ah_ , Frank thinks, _a habit that we both share_.

Both boys are essentially silent as they step through the threshold of the restaurant, the sticky, familiar scent of fried food tantalizingly wafting through the open door. Frank holds the door ajar with his hip to allow Mikey in first, and as he does so, he almost immediately catches sight of Ray and Bob, already having claimed a booth for themselves.

And, they’ve already got the pizza.

Frank shouts a joyful “Hey!” to his friends from across the restaurant, cutting the conversation that they were previously having in half. 

Ray snaps his head upright, the smile on his face all-too recognizable as he offers a “Hey,” in return. Bob’s response is far more mild, and instead, he offers a short wave while gently mouthing, “What’s up?” 

As Frank makes his way across the red-and-white tiled floor, his heels clicking behind him, he is dumbfounded to see that Mikey is practically matching pace with him. He still isn’t sure entirely if Mikey will fit in with the group’s vibe, but this is surely a great start. Regardless of if the source of Mikey’s excitement is the prospect of meeting new people or choking down steaming-hot pizza, Frank decides he will take it either way.

“So, is this the ‘famous’ Mikey you told us so much about?” Ray offers, barely waiting for Frank and Mikey to ease their way into the booth.

Mikey’s eyes widen at this, and he shoots a look at Frank, a single eyebrow raised. He chuckles softly, and Frank feels the apples of his cheeks grow warmer. 

Casually setting an elbow down onto the greasy table, Frank rolls his eyes. He snatches up a thin paper plate and serves himself a slice of pizza, one that seems to be the size of his face. “Come on, guys,” he says, the pizza slice dropping to his plate with a wet _slap_. “You’re making it sound like I have a crush on the kid.”

At this, the entire table erupts in laughter, and Mikey even pipes up, readjusting the gray knit beanie atop his unkempt hair before doing so. (Frank doesn’t even comprehend how he can stand to wear anything other than a baseball cap in this heat, but to each his own.)

“Sorry Frank, but you know I’m already spoken for,” Mikey jokes, eliciting more laughter from Ray and Bob’s side of the table.

Frank starts to nibble at his pizza slice, the gooey cheese pulling off in strands in between his front teeth. He wants to fire back with something witty, but before he can even formulate a response in his head, he finds himself joining in their laughter. He’s thankful that they’re among the only people in the restaurant, aside from a stuffy-looking man in a cleanly pressed dress shirt and the pizzeria’s owner, a portly man with a thick, dark mustache (by the name of Sal, who would’ve guessed) who consistently recognizes Frank and his pals as regulars.

At the sudden increase in noise, the stuffy man glares at their table, temporarily removing himself from the issue of the _Boston Globe_ that he previously had his nose buried in. The newspaper crinkles furiously as he slams it down on his own table. His expression is stern, and he seems far too young himself, perhaps in his thirties, to be bothered with the actions of a handful of college kids.

Frank, however, doesn’t really find himself giving too much credence to the man’s negative reaction. If some friendly banter and thunderous laughter was all it took to chip away at Mikey’s cool exterior and allow him to feel welcome among the group, Frank was more than willing to oblige.

♡

About an hour has already flown by, much to Frank’s shock, and Mikey is successfully inserting himself into the conversation with far more expertise than assumed.

They’ve already informed Ray and Bob of their shared art class, which Mikey utilized as a chance to boast about his art major older brother acting as a built-in tutor. _Jerk_ , Frank had thought to himself. Coincidentally, as if he were a mind-reader, Mikey subsequently shifted in his seat to turn to Frank, and offered, “Hey, maybe I’ll share him and his talents sometime.”

Frank huffed at this, not sure of the authenticity of Mikey’s proposal.

The boys’ conversation, however, had soon transitioned from mundane discussion of classes and academic-related topics to music, a direction that it normally tended to veer in. 

“Alright guys, this one is important,” Frank begins, his eyes wide. Already having worked his way through two slices of pizza, he’s almost completely demolished his third. He gnaws on the thin, slightly-burnt crust thoughtfully before continuing. “The Cure or The Smiths?”

“Easy,” Mikey quickly responds, clapping his hands together. “The Cure.”

Both Ray and Bob discard their half-eaten pizza slices in strange unison, the two of them seeming eager to defend The Smiths’ honor. Before either of them can even offer a counterpoint to Mikey’s preference, Frank adds to Mikey’s statement.

“He’s right, you know. Robert Smith would _totally_ kick Morrissey’s ass in a fight, too.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Ray snorts. Bob nods thoughtfully at this, resuming to chew on his crispy pizza crust. “Robert Smith _wishes_ he were Morrissey.”

“Enough talk about frontmen,” Mikey offers, dissolving Ray and Frank’s back-and-forth retorts for a moment. “Do The Smiths have Simon Gallup as a bassist?”

Mikey casually leans back into the worn leather seat of the booth, arms crossed against his chest and an accomplished smirk forming on his lips. Frank glances over at him, and nods in soft agreement while running his tongue gently across his silver lip ring. He did have a point.

Bob then finishes the pizza crust he’d been nursing for the past ten minutes, and dabs his mouth with a napkin. He burps quietly, and it’s barely audible, but the other three boys all take note of it and giggle in a uniform manner.

“So, you like bass?” Bob prods, his eyesight level with Mikey’s.

Mikey smiles widely once again, his reaction to Bob’s question signaling far more glee than Frank perceived him as being capable of. “I play it myself.”

The whole “The Cure vs. The Smiths” thing having been tossed aside at this point, Ray, Bob, and Frank all take turns further picking at Mikey’s brain. It’s evident that they’re all ecstatic over the prospect of having met another musician. Bass players were a rare breed, at least it seemed so to Frank—everyone wanted to either be a virtuoso on the guitar or the perfect frontman.

After about five minutes of general discussion and an invitation for Mikey to hang out with them in their dorm sometime, Frank’s eyes widen as what he thinks to be an excellent idea formulates in his mind. He turns back to Mikey, and rests his elbow on the table, cradling his chin in his palm.

“Why don’t you play with us sometime?”

♡

The sun is just beginning to lazily dip below the horizon, and Frank feels absolutely elated as the first day of the new semester comes to a close.

Not only did Mikey accept their offer to hang out sometime, but Frank and his friends may just have found the bass player they needed to round out Bob’s lonely rhythm section. And maybe, too, art class wouldn’t be so unbearable after all. Aside from Professor Armstrong’s melodrama, you know.

Dusk is just about to make its entrance, and Frank is stepping up along the path towards his dorm building, the gray brick feeling welcoming and familiar. It’s still rather early, but the idea of curling up in bed is calling to Frank.

He lets out a soft yawn, and as he does so, he catches a tall figure waving to him from a somewhat considerable distance, standing in front of the next closest dorm building across the way. Frank’s eyes are still watery to a certain degree from his yawning, and he squints to attempt to make out the identity of the person amid the dim and hazy light among him.

The figure waves again, and Frank thinks he can make out a vibrant red flannel shirt, very much like the one that Gerard the library employee was donning earlier. _Ah_.

Frank tenses up for a moment and feels the very same warmth come across his cheeks again, but he manages to snap out of it long enough to offer Gerard a wave in return.

No sooner than he waves to Gerard, Frank turns on his heel and continues his way up to the front door of his building before he can even see Gerard’s reaction.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Again, I apologize for taking so long to update this time around. Working retail full-time during a pandemic hasn't left me much time to write! I thank you all for being patient with me. Your support of my writing means the world.
> 
> While I'm here, too, I'd like to plug something, as I think it's important to use whatever platform you have to discuss these things. I believe unequivocally that black lives matter, and I hope you all feel the same. Now is the time to speak up and show up. If you're looking for a way to show your support for this cause, I'll add a link here to a wonderful Google doc I found that includes links to petitions to sign, funds to donate to, action items, reading recommendations, and self-care tips. Here is the link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Gwl9omY8l5dUCkK4Y2llKAsfx5asES9zWn4Tr27QhTU/mobilebasic
> 
> Thank you all again, and please be well. Happy reading! xoxo

Frank thinks he’s spent more time in the library during this first week of the semester than he ever had before, in every previous semester combined.

Today is Thursday. A rather nondescript day of the week. Who really cares about Thursday, anyways? It’s also probably the fourth, maybe even fifth time Frank’s been to the library since arriving on campus on Sunday.

Adolescent Psych during the last class period had been particularly grueling ( _what kind of sick monster gives a pop quiz during syllabus week?_ ), and Frank is now practically trudging through the library’s unnecessarily heavy front door, the art books he’d loaned from Gerard in tow. 

He was going to work on his drawing, _that_ was it.

At the moment, however, Frank is grateful for a respite from the brutal early September heat, and the skin of his back below his striped shirt is slick with sweat. As he enters the threshold of the building, he drinks in the cool air that greets him. It was a damn shame that only a handful of buildings on campus _actually_ had air conditioning installed—Frank often pondered why that was the case if they had to fork over so much for tuition. What could he do about it, though?

Strolling past the circulation desk, he sees Gerard hunched over in his usual chair behind the counter, his typically-crooked nametag pinned onto a Star Wars tee shirt. He’s not doodling today, but instead, he has his nose buried in a dog-eared copy of Stephen King’s _Pet Sematary_ , stamped on the binding with a library sticker. Frank doesn’t even think he even catches Gerard’s sight as he continues along, making his way towards his favorite chair.

On the wall adjacent to Frank is a circular clock, fitted around the edges with thick, tortoiseshell-patterned plastic, another relic from the eighties. Hanging proudly in between two towering bookshelves, Frank reads it: four o’clock. Gerard often worked around this time.

He cocks his head to the side to catch a glimpse of Gerard again. He watches as he sets his book down onto the surface in front of him and tucks a loose clump of black hair behind his ear. Gerard grabs the book again, and turns the page, still seemingly unaware of Frank’s presence. _Crinklecrinkle_.

Frank tears his attention away from Gerard, and fumbles around in his backpack for his art notebook. Laying it on his lap, he flips it open to his last attempt of re-drawing Pansy, his guitar. Frank thinks he’s making progress, but he’s genuinely unsure. This time, however, she ended up resembling a rather plump-looking cello rather than a depressed giraffe in a dusty zoo enclosure. On top of that, Professor Armstrong didn’t brand his work as “derivative” this time, either. He just sort of turned up his nose instead, as if he just caught a whiff of something pungent.

Improvement, I guess?

A few nights ago, Mikey had made his way over to Frank, Ray, and Bob’s place for an impromptu jam session. Upon Frank tugging out Pansy from her case, Mikey took it upon himself to point and ask, “So, is _that_ what you were trying to draw in art class?”

 _Whatever_. He was at least trying.

And by trying, he meant trying to actually pay attention to the task at hand rather than stealing looks at Gerard practically every three minutes.

Frank honest-to-God doesn’t have the faintest idea why he finds Gerard so captivating. The pair had barely interacted, other than Gerard performing the duties of his job and timid waves to each other whenever they stumbled across each other on campus. This is also not counting yesterday, when Frank saw Gerard at the Starbucks in Faneuil Hall marketplace, when Gerard attempted in vain to pull only a single green straw from the tightly-packed receptacle (here’s a hint: Gerard pulled out far more than one straw).

Frank doesn’t want to think he’s “into” Gerard—like, _into_ into—maybe “interested” would be a better way of wording it? Whatever it may be, Frank is plenty content with sitting in his little spot near the circulation desk, watching Gerard do whatever it is he does as he works his early-evening shifts. He would wait, too, until he needed to request Gerard’s assistance for something library-related again. 

Frank’s thoughts are interrupted by a loud sniffle from Gerard’s direction. _Sniffsniff_. He nonchalantly scratches at his nose, and immediately resumes reading his book.

Frank wonders why he wants to talk to Gerard so bad. Frank is under the impression that he has enough friends to keep him happy. Maybe it’s because he was nice to him that one time, despite the glaring fact that he’s paid to be courteous to his fellow students. He really, really doesn’t know.

Gazing back downwards to the work-in-progress on his lap, Frank can only hope that he gets an artistic idea good enough to keep him distracted from throwing secretive glances at Gerard.

♡

It’s Frank’s first night out of the semester, and he’s got a hopelessly stubborn cowlick jutting out from behind his ear.

Fixed in front of the streaky mirror in the dorm’s bathroom, Frank runs his fingers under the gentle, ice-cold stream of the sink faucet after eyeing his dilemma up. He thinks that maybe if he dampens the cowlick a bit, perhaps it will decide to stay down. Ray, already having finished getting ready, is propped up against the doorframe, shaking his head and clucking his tongue disapprovingly. 

As Frank raises his moistened fingers to the wayward tuft of hair, scowling, Ray speaks up, straightening himself.

“You know, we’re just going to a house show,” he offers, somewhat pointedly. “You’re not going to try to find a date, or something. Nobody to impress.”

Having finished slicking down the cowlick, Frank leans on his heel and does a one-eighty turn to face Ray. “Yeah, but it’s going to annoy the living piss out of me all night.”

Once they were finished getting ready, Frank, Ray, and Bob were going to head over to a show with some local bands performing, the address having been provided by Mikey. Mikey insisted that they come, partially because his girlfriend’s band was on the bill, partially because it was being hosted at a house his brother rented with two of his friends.

Mikey had transitioned into becoming considerably more open and talkative with the three of them (countless late nights playing video games and eating Chinese takeout together were to thank for that), so needless to say, Frank was rather curious to discover if Mikey’s brother was of a similar nature. Mikey had boasted that his older brother was an extremely talented artist, so there was the possibility of him either being an arrogant show-off or a soft-spoken recluse.

“Why don’t you just wear a hat, like Bob often does?” Ray adds, Bob’s blonde head peeking through the open doorway as if on cue. Bob already had an unlit cigarette lazily protruding from his tightly-clamped lips.

Stepping away from the mirror, Frank shoots a quick look over in Bob’s direction, whose own cigarette prompts a pat on the back pocket of his jeans to check for his own carton of Marlboros. “I’d look like a douchebag with a hat. And Bob, if the RA catches you with that cigarette, you’re as good as dead.”

Bob rolls his eyes, and fumbles around in the pocket of his gray hoodie before fishing out his own half-empty pack of cigs, removing the unlit one from his mouth and sliding it back into place.

“‘Smoke-free campus,’ blah, blah, blah,” Bob responds mockingly.

Choosing to ignore his friend’s taunting this time, Frank smooths his hands along his other pockets before leading his roommates out to his car. iPhone, keys, pack of gum, _check, check, check_.

No sooner than the three of them make their way down the stairs of their residence hall to the boiling-hot, scratchy asphalt of the parking lot, Frank’s hand-me-down sedan is sputtering to life once again. With Minor Threat’s _Out of Step_ as his soundtrack, Frank curls through the winding roads leading out of campus and into the city beyond them.

♡

The very first thing the three of them are greeted with after knocking the door is Mikey. A drunk Mikey, at that.

His cheeks flushed a furious pink shade, Mikey is grinning widely when he calls out behind him, “My new friends are here!” His glasses are mildly lopsided, and Frank isn’t quite sure who he’s calling to. He supposes he’s about to find out.

What he is sure of, however, is that Mikey is practically guarding the doorway at this point. Perhaps unintentionally.

“So, uh, Mikey,” Ray injects, as he’s teetering over by the steps of the creaky wooden porch. “Are you gonna let us in?”

At this, Mikey snorts and rolls his shoulders. Continuing his snorting fit, he waves his hand, and stumbles backwards, allowing the door to creak open with the force of his body. “Come in, g-guys,” he stutters.

The very moment they all enter the house, the door shutting behind them with a gentle _click_ , they’re greeted with the thick, musty scent of booze, mainly coming from the breath of Mikey and another guy with short black hair. Frank takes several seconds to comprehend his new surroundings: the home is modest, and much akin to what one would expect a home belonging to several college students to look like. Adjacent to the vacant and narrow entryway he’s planted in is a rather bare-bones kitchen, the unwashed dishes in the sink piled high. Straight ahead is a cramped (yet open) room, complete with a ratty maroon couch and a stairway leading down to what Frank assumes is the basement. Inside the “living room” is also a makeshift stage, the drum kit already in place in the center of the stained beige carpet.

Mikey’s short-haired friend makes quick work of introducing himself as “Pete” to everyone, giving out sloppy handshakes before leading the group into the living room. 

Glancing straight ahead, Frank instantly recognizes someone he’s seen at other local shows around the Boston area before: a tall, gangly guy named Geoff, who himself is a member of a band called Thursday. Frank catches Geoff hunched over, fiddling with the drum kit, his pale auburn hair hanging across his eyes.

Frank’s line of sight is immediately snapped away from Geoff’s direction when he hears Mikey’s drunken ramblings resume once more. In the far corner of the room, it seems that Bob and Ray have already claimed a spot on the threadbare sofa, and are tossing back beers with Pete.

Mikey somehow manages to stumble up to the spot in which Frank is currently planted, and he props an arm up against Frank’s shoulder as if to steady himself. Now that Mikey is this close, Frank thinks the stench of this breath is damn near unbearable. It’s sticky, and almost downright nauseating: amazingly, Frank has a stomach of steel. 

Most of what Mikey is mumbling is straight-up incoherent, but Frank thinks he can make out something along the lines of, “G-Geoff, you’re such a good host!” 

Gently distancing himself from his inebriated friend, Frank blinks and turns back to Geoff, who now has his back turned to the drum kit. _Ah_ , Frank thinks, _Geoff and Mikey’s brother must be roommates_.

 _Speaking of Mikey’s brother_ , Frank continues to ponder, _Where the hell is he?_ Mikey had made quite a fuss, after all, about them all meeting him. 

No sooner than Frank averts his attention back towards Mikey’s way, Mikey is stumbling once more, but doing shockingly well on his feet despite not having Frank’s shoulder as a support beam. This time, however, Mikey appears to be making a beeline for the steep staircase leading down towards the basement—on the very same staircase, a figure is ascending, the steps uttering a deafening _creak_ with each move upwards.

The next statement shouted out by Mikey, however, is perhaps even more deafening. “Guys, it’s my brother!”

Mikey’s abundant excitement draws forth the attention of everyone in the room, and Pete, from the corner, chuckles audibly before taking another hearty swig of beer. Ray and Bob, too, have discarded their beverages for the time being and have their necks craned towards Mikey’s direction.

As Mikey’s brother approaches the head of the stairs, the thundering creaks growing softer and softer with each step, Frank immediately locks eyes with him. Those eyes, too, are eyes that Frank knows.

Having emerged from the basement of this old house is Mikey’s brother—Gerard.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! Another chapter! A short one at that, but I felt it was best leaving it to this one scene. I hope y'all are still enjoying, and since I have less shifts at work this next week, I'm hoping that'll give me more time to write. As always, thank you for your kind words, and lots of love to you all!
> 
> xoxo

It’s nine o’clock on a Friday evening, and Frank is holding back the hair of someone he’s barely exchanged words with as they’re hunched over a toilet, emptying their bowels at a sickening volume. 

From the moment Gerard had ascended the staircase into the living room, it was abundantly clear that he was drunk. Not as far gone as Mikey, however: perhaps “tipsy” would be a better way of describing his state. 

Maybe, Frank thinks, Gerard’s drunkenness was the motivator behind his immediate friendliness. From the moment Gerard had first locked eyes with Frank, he was waving, grinning, and hell, even approaching him to make conversation. Frank was barely granted enough time to fathom the idea that Gerard wanted to actually _talk to him_ , never mind the fact that he was Mikey’s brother and Frank was none the wiser.

So, Gerard kept close to Frank for a majority of the initial hours of the evening. They discussed music, mostly, and bonded over their shared admiration for horror movies (Frank should’ve assumed, really, given the Stephen King book that Gerard was reading in the library yesterday). All of this over a few cans of Bud Light, and they eventually found themselves in the same tight corner as Ray, Bob, and Pete. That’s where they stayed—that is, until it became evident that Gerard was no expert at holding his alcohol down.

At the first warning sign of Gerard beginning to feel woozy, Frank immediately instructed Mikey to show them to the nearest bathroom. Frank’s maternal instincts had kicked into full gear, and he couldn’t quite place his finger on why he was rushing into such swift action for Gerard like this. Truly, Mikey himself was far too inebriated to care for his brother, but maybe Frank just didn’t want to leave Gerard alone.

So, here they are. The basement bathroom the two of them are occupying is cramped and dim, and the locks of black hair at the nape of Gerard’s pale neck are clenched in Frank’s left fist. Attentively, Frank is listening to both the thundering sound of Geoff’s band playing above them and the sound of Gerard hacking up mouthfuls of pungent vomit. 

Only a few hours prior, Frank had been thanking his “stomach of steel” for helping him withstand Mikey’s horrid breath, but he’s not sure if his stomach can save him this time. He may just puke himself after this.

Gerard is incredibly wobbly on his knees, but despite that, the hands he has clenched onto the rim of the toilet bowl are considerably steady. Frank winces at every _blech_ that echoes from Gerard’s hoarse throat, and at times, he even shuts his eyes momentarily, as if to distract himself from the nauseating scent that’s now permeating the room. 

When it becomes clear that Gerard’s vomiting is beginning to cease, Frank ensures that he’s steady enough to hold his own before easing himself back up onto his feet. Vomiting or not, Gerard still has a great deal of sobering up to do. Frank shoots one last quick gaze at Gerard, who’s still bent over the toilet, as almost a cursory check, before padding across the cracked tile floor to the sink.

The mirror above the sink is splotchy and streaky, as if it hasn’t seen an ounce of glass cleaner in weeks. Despite the grime, Frank is able to catch his reflection as he darts his eyes upwards: his brows are furrowed together, as they often tend to do when he’s consumed with worry, and his eyes are underlined by the first comings of heavy, dark bags. Piled onto the surface of the counter of the sink, adjacent to some worn toothbrushes, are some disposable paper cups. Frank quickly snatches one up and runs it under the cool water of the tap, carefully setting it aside before returning to Gerard.

Frank’s head is now throbbing, but he knows he can’t leave Gerard. At least not now. _I’ll find some ibuprofen later_ , he thinks. 

Looking back down at Gerard, who’s still curled up on the floor, Frank’s words are barely above a whisper, but they’re audible enough to cause Gerard to hesitantly raise his head back up. Frank picks up the tiny paper cup, and kneels down, nudging it in Gerard’s direction. “Gerard. Hey, drink this. Rinse your mouth out.”

Gerard, with still-wobbly hands, gladly takes the cup from Frank’s grasp. He raises it to his lips and gulps some water down, as instructed, turning his head back towards the toilet bowl to spit some out. Frank, for one, is pleased to witness the gesture.

After Gerard finishes rinsing, Frank extends a hand out to him and eases him back up onto his feet. Gerard’s breathing is considerably ragged, as if he was just hit with an intense wave of exhaustion, and his footing is still rather uneasy. So, he gently leans against Frank’s smaller frame as he leads the two of them out the door and down the dark, narrow hallway. The door swings shut behind them, its hinges nearly as (if not more) creaky than the staircase.

Frank bristles, and squints, attempting to see through the immense darkness of the basement surrounding them. Gerard still on his shoulder, he extends his free arm and waves it about, reaching around for the nearest doorknob. Gerard’s bedroom, as Frank had been informed earlier, also resided in the lowest level of the house. Frank’s plan simply was to lay Gerard in bed, keep an eye on him until he adequately sobered up, and above all, ensure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

After several moments of beckoning around into nothingness, Frank is enthusiastic to feel the cool, metallic surface of a round bulb. He twirls his fingers around it, and twists, and, oddly enough, is met with dim lamplight the moment the door pops open. It appears to Frank as if Gerard had forgotten to switch his light off before retreating upstairs.

The interior of Gerard’s room is uncharacteristically messy—Frank had always taken note of Gerard keeping track of the tidiness of the circulation desk in the library. Adorning the walls are shelves piled high with dog-eared books and enough comic book issues to fill a shop. Haphazardly taped to the walls are posters of bands Frank recognizes, and tucked away in the corner is a small wooden desk covered with unfinished doodles on lined paper and a sleek silver laptop (not to mention a creepy paperweight with a taxidermied bat inside). Perhaps most simply is Gerard’s unmade bed, positioned dead in the middle of the room.

Gerard, still on Frank’s shoulder, sniffles before coughing quietly.

Frank catches the corners of his lips curling up: he’s astounded at the fact that he _still_ finds Gerard to be charming, even in his current state. _Am I out of my mind?_

He makes the extra effort to be _extremely_ gentle as he begins to lead Gerard towards his bed. They’re in the home stretch now. As much as he hated to admit it, his arm was starting to throb slightly, out of soreness—Frank certainly wasn’t the strongest, nor was he an athlete, and practically carrying Gerard’s weight on his shoulder for the past handful of minutes wasn’t doing his body any favors.

From the very moment Gerard’s body meets his mattress, he seems inclined to lay back down. The speed at which he does so is moderately nerve-wracking for Frank, and he catches himself wincing. Regardless, Gerard instantly looks cozy, and Frank catches himself beaming. Again.

 _I need to stop_.

Frank’s motherly instincts still kicked into high gear, he makes quick work of tugging the previously-discarded comforter right over Gerard’s torso. As far as Frank is concerned, Gerard is already coming across as if he’s asleep. _That was fast_.

Leaving a now-peaceful Gerard to rest, Frank decides to take up residence in the empty swiveling chair adjacent to Gerard’s cluttered desk. Keeping a close eye on Gerard for the time being seemed like the best bet, although, at this point, everybody else was likely wondering where Frank went this whole time. The music was still booming from upstairs, sounding as if Mikey’s girlfriend’s band had begun their set, and despite the volume, Gerard remained unconscious.

Instinctively reaching towards the back pocket of his jeans to fish around for his iPhone, Frank hovers above the seat momentarily. However, before he can snatch up his phone, Frank pauses in his tracks upon hearing Gerard mutter something, clear as day, from his bed.

“Thank you, Frank.”

Frank’s cheeks immediately grow warm, and this time, he doesn’t suppress the smile forming on his face. He doesn’t even want to. Frank’s bottom touches the seat of the chair once more, and he leisurely leans back, watching as Gerard tranquilly dozes off once more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, look, it's another chapter! I still can't thank you all enough for continuing to be patient with me as my job takes over my entire life. This chapter is full of more cute Frank and Gerard interactions, so, please enjoy their awkwardness as a nice respite from all the horrible things happening in the world right now.
> 
> With that being said, I hope you're all still continuing to stay safe from COVID-19, and I hope you all are also using your voices to stand in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement. We all have an obligation to do what we can, and I'm willing to use any platform I have (yes, even Archive of Our Own) to encourage others to take action.
> 
> With all of that being said, thank you all again, and enjoy! xoxo

A week has passed since the house show and Gerard’s drunken dilemma, and once again, Frank is on the doorstep of Gerard and Geoff’s place. This time, however, he doesn’t have Ray and Bob in tow.

In the aftermath of that Friday night’s events, Frank found himself unable to imagine how his next few interactions with Gerard would occur. The sheer thought of it made his skin crawl.

_Would he even remember?_

However, Frank’s fears were quelled, as days passed by without much circumstance. He still frequented the library, and Gerard still mostly kept to himself during his shifts, aside from some gentle “hellos” and casual waves whenever Frank strolled past. They’d exchange a brief greeting, and Frank would retreat to his usual recliner, and Gerard would doodle away in his sketchbook, as always. Same old song and dance.

It was the same old song and dance, too, as Frank would continue to steal glances at an ever-oblivious Gerard.

What was considerably stranger, though, was the fact that Frank was now armed with the knowledge that Mikey and Gerard were related. In addition to that, Frank swooping in to be Shitfaced Gerard’s caretaker during the house show provided Mikey with plenty of fresh ammunition to tease him with—Frank had been on the receiving end of _plenty_ of that whenever Mikey dropped by their dorm for their now-routine jam sessions.

Frank thanked his lucky stars, though, that Mikey didn’t dare dwell on that topic on Tuesday afternoon when Gerard happened to join them in the dining hall for lunch.

During lunch, Gerard hadn’t been as chatty as Frank had hoped he would be, but realistically, he only had Shitfaced Gerard as a point of comparison. After all, it was likely the booze talking during the portion of the evening in which Gerard would hardly leave Frank’s side.

Frank hopes this afternoon will be different, however.

Creeping towards the doorstep, Frank extends a fist and raps on the wooden door in rapid succession. The door itself is in dire need of a fresh paint job, the off-white hue peeling and chipping in nearly every corner.

At Tuesday’s lunch, Mikey had actually proved himself to be quite useful. He informed Gerard of Frank’s whole art class dilemma, and without Mikey even as much as suggesting it, Gerard courteously offered up his advice and assistance. An exchange of phone numbers and a handful of text messages later, and here Frank was.

The door swings open far sooner (and with far more force) than Frank expects it to, and the face that greets him is not quite what he expects, either. Wedged in between the narrow doorframe is a tall, slender young woman, with her black hair slicked back into two sleek pigtails. Her lips are painted a furious, rich shade of red.

Before Frank can even part his lips to say a single word, she grins wildly, and immediately exclaims, “Oh! You must be Gerard’s friend, Frank! It’s so nice to meet you, I’m Lindsey.”

Frank is flattered by Lindsey’s enthusiasm, but similarly, a tad overwhelmed by it at first. He can’t remember the last time he’s encountered someone so… animated. 

Lindsey’s perkiness aside however, her statement can’t help but have him ponder the following: what has Gerard said to her; what has he said to Geoff?

 _Whatever_. The least he could do was return Lindsey’s kindness and hospitality. Shifting on his heels, Frank replies, “It’s nice to meet you, Lindsey.”

Before Lindsey is even granted a chance to quip something in response, her scarlet lips opening slightly, Frank faintly hears some footsteps accompanied by the loud creaking of the wood-paneled floor in the entryway. The creator of the footsteps sighs audibly, and then comes into view. 

It’s Gerard. He peeks his head over Lindsey’s broad shoulder, and points his eyes directly at Frank, a bright smile present on his face. “Hi, Frank.”

Frank, still planted on the porch, is rather amused to see Gerard and Lindsey’s interaction unfold before him. No sooner than Gerard greets Frank, he snaps his head back in Lindsey’s direction, and chuckles, clucking his tongue. “Aren’t you gonna let him in?”

Lindsey elicits a few laughs of her own in return, and hers are booming in comparison to Gerard’s. Courteously, she shuffles to the far end of the doorway, keeping the door propped open with her hip to allow Frank to enter. 

As she does this, she jokes with Gerard, her tone laced with evident sarcasm. “Just had to make sure you weren’t inviting any riff-raff into our house,” she chuckles.

 _Oh_ , Frank thinks, _Lindsey must be Gerard and Geoff’s other roommate_.

Subsequently, Frank passes through the threshold and into the house, following Gerard’s lead, nodding his thanks to Lindsey on his way in. Nearly immediately, Frank takes note of the house’s tidiness, its state being worlds away from what he saw last week. Darting his vision over to the kitchenette as he strolls past, all he spies is a single (and rather lonely-looking) dirty fork lying in the sink.

“Clean as a whistle, huh?” Gerard asks as he turns his head back, his right eyebrow arched. “Did it all myself. Geoff and Linds aren’t the most tidy people.”

“Yeah, looks great,” is all Frank murmurs in return, rather absentmindedly. As he makes his statement, all he can think of is the chaotic state of Gerard’s own bedroom just last week, and given that, Frank knows he can come to one of the two following conclusions: either Gerard only cleaned once it got _really_ dirty, or, he cleaned specifically because Frank was coming over as a houseguest. 

Charming Gerard strikes again.

Frank, once again, isn’t given much time to ponder this, as only moments later, the pair are approaching and descending the staircase leading down to the basement. Over text, Gerard had mentioned that his room was stocked with all of the art supplies and desk space they might need. Frank knows he’s been in Gerard’s bedroom before, but this instance just seems _different_ , merely because Gerard would actually be in his right mind this time around.

Upon entering Gerard’s bedroom, Frank is greeted with the very same cleanliness he saw upstairs. He can’t really say he’s all too bewildered, but he’s still flattered nonetheless. The bedsheets are tightly and neatly spread across the mattress, and all of the loose doodles that had previously been scattered across Gerard’s desk are now stacked in an orderly pile.

Frank still has his backpack on his person, slung over his shoulder, not bothering to drop it off in his dorm after classes. He gently shrugs it off, and drops it onto the carpeted floor, right beside the door.

“You can take the chair at my desk, if you want,” Gerard suggests, turning on his heel to face Frank. 

Frank nods, and responds, “Alright,” reaching into his backpack and tugging out his notebook before stepping over to the desk.

From the very moment Frank eases himself into the swiveling chair and sets his notebook onto the worn surface of the desk, Gerard is at his side, hunched over, a single arm resting not too far away from Frank’s. Frank immediately tenses at this, but then mentally slaps himself in the face for being so anxious at the idea of Gerard being physically close to him.

Really, he shouldn’t be so nervous—he hasn’t the faintest idea why he is. He can’t come up with a single reason _why_ Gerard makes him feel this way. Gerard is just an acquaintance, and is here to help him with stuff for art class, and was simply nice to him at the library that one time (again, which he’s paid to do). Not only that, but he’s his friend’s older brother.

He can’t help but acknowledge that Gerard smells sort of good within this close proximity, however.

 _I really, really need to stop_.

With each passing day that he visits the library, Frank can’t help but pick at his own brain and begin to wonder whether or not his infatuation with Gerard has passed platonic levels or not. He’s desperately searching for an answer within himself, but can’t seem to locate one. 

Is Gerard even _into_ men? Is Frank? Frank had plenty of girlfriends back home in Jersey, and he had dated his childhood best friend Jamia on-and-off for the majority of their adolescent years. Frank was confident enough in his ample dating experience, but none of that included other men.

Frank is torn away from his own inner monologue once more by Gerard’s voice. “Hey, why don’t you show me what you’ve got so far.”

Frank, blinking quickly, glances down at his notebook and flips it open to his past several attempts at sketching Pansy. While he does this, Gerard shuffles his fingers around in a Star Wars mug, and picks out a freshly sharpened pencil.

Looking at his own work, Frank can’t help but feel self-conscious as he reflects on it. He knew he was making some improvement, Professor Armstrong said as much, but he feels as if he’s in the presence of a professional. Gerard, in reality, is really just an art student himself, but what Frank had managed to see of Gerard’s doodles thus far was exceptional. 

Frank is preparing for the worst upon Gerard’s first inspection of his work. However, his amateur sketches are met with far more praise than he was initially expecting.

Gerard, inching a bit closer, twirls his pencil around in his slender fingers. Nodding, he places his free hand onto Frank’s notebook, and tugs it nearer to his line of sight. “These are a pretty decent start,” he says, his tone slightly rising in pitch.

In an attempt to quell the blush that will likely be forming on his cheeks any moment now, Frank pretends to cough into his shoulder. _Nice one_. He cocks his head to the side, and draws his vision towards Gerard’s thoughtful face above him. Clearing his throat, he knits his brows together. His voice somewhat hoarse from the forced cough, he adds, “You think so?”

Gerard giggles, and rolls his shoulders. He taps his pencil on the desk. _Taptaptaptaptaptap_. “I mean it,” he starts, “it’s really not bad. At all.”

For a split second, Frank looks back down at his various attempts of drawing his guitar and feels somewhat proud. He’s not quite sure what Professor Armstrong wants, really, but armed with Gerard’s advice and critiques, he feels like he just might get somewhere. 

♡

Frank, for one, is astonished that Gerard didn’t kick him out once their impromptu art lesson was over.

Frank, above all, is feeling grateful. Gerard’s wisdom and skill on all things art-related had the gears really turning in Frank’s brain in terms of novel approaches to drawing. Frank had informed Gerard that he was aiming for a “realistic” style when recreating Pansy’s likeness, and although Gerard pegged his own personal art style as “cartoonish,” the advice he offered was more than worthy. Gerard had even shown Frank some of his own work.

More importantly, however, Gerard had offered to meet with Frank regularly to assist him with his work.

The two boys are currently sitting cross-legged on Gerard’s plush carpet, a cardboard pizza box being the only thing separating them. After finishing the “art lesson,” Gerard had suggested that they order from Sal’s, something Frank was never prone to turning down. Gerard had complained that he was “famished” and “not in the mood” for Kraft mac and cheese for the third time this week.

Frank is thankful for the meal (Gerard had graciously offered to pay), but above all, he’s purely shocked to see Gerard, ever the proper one, quite literally choking down slice after slice. And Frank thought _he_ was a messy eater.

Every time Frank tears his gaze up from his own slice of pizza, he has to force himself to stifle his laughter. It seems that with every other bite, a long string of mozzarella comes trailing down Gerard’s pale chin.

Setting down his half-eaten pizza crust onto his paper plate, Gerard swallows quickly and makes eye contact with Frank. Dabbing the corners of his mouth with a paper towel, he breaks the silence the two of them had maintained while eating. “So, you’re good friends with my brother, I take it?”

Frank devours the last of his own pizza crust before responding, and wipes his greasy fingers off. “Well, we only met at the beginning of the semester,” Frank starts, “but I’d say we’ve gotten tight.”

“I see,” Gerard quips, nodding. He props an arm onto his thigh and rests his head in his palm. He pauses for a moment, and looks thoughtful. “It’s cool that you guys are starting a band. Mikey’s been dying to join one.”

Frank lifts an eyebrow. _A band? Where is he getting that idea from?_ Frank, Bob, Ray, and Mikey weren’t a band by any definition of the word. All they did was jam out sometimes and do covers of songs. Again, not a band in the slightest.

“Oh, we’re not a band,” Frank states, his tone still containing the remnants of confusion. “We just like to play together.”

“Ah.” Gerard eases himself up from the floor, and steps over to the wastebasket beneath his desk to discard his paper plate and paper towel. He grabs Frank’s, too, without even having to be asked. He moves over to his bed, and plops down, slouching against the headboard. “I mean, it would be pretty sweet if you did, though.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But we don’t have a singer,” Frank shrugs, and follows Gerard’s lead in standing up. For a moment, Frank looks a little lost.

“You can sit beside me, you know,” Gerard offers, patting his mattress expectantly. Frank, once again, bristles at this. This whole afternoon, Gerard’s been nothing but welcoming. This gesture, however, truly takes the cake in terms of outright hospitality.

Near immediately, though, Frank mentally chides himself for having such a jumpy reaction. _Just two dudes chilling in bed together_ , he thinks, _nothing out of the ordinary at all_.

Frank makes quick work of stepping over towards Gerard’s bed. Maybe he’s _too_ quick. The mattress that meets his backside is as flat as a board and has absolutely no give—maybe _that’s_ why Gerard is always hunched over.

Positioned hesitantly at the very corner of the mattress, ready to fall off at any moment, Frank turns back to Gerard as he replies. He’s leaned over a bit, one shoulder resting on his rumpled pillows at the head of the bed.

“You know, I used to sing in a band,” Gerard starts, his lips curled up into a smirk. His tone, too, is perhaps the most braggadocious Frank has ever heard out of him. “With Lindsey.”

“You can draw better than anyone I've ever known, now you tell me you can sing. What’s next, you’re gonna tell me you’re a Nobel Prize recipient?”

Frank’s snide comment earns a loud chuckle from Gerard, but jokes aside, the new information received instantly has the gears turning in Frank’s conscience. Gerard’s prior comments about forming a band did pique Frank’s interest, and on top of that, inviting Gerard to come sing with them would only grant Frank further excuses to spend time with him, in addition to their little “art tutoring” arrangement.

This just might be Frank’s most genius idea yet.

Before Gerard is even given the opportunity to offer anything in response to the previous statement, Frank is lifting himself up and off of Gerard’s bed, a wild grin coming across his face. He places a single hand on his hip, and pivots on his heel to face Gerard once more, whose expression has returned to its perplexed state.

“Gerard, I’ve got a proposal for you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update time, everybody! Not much to say on my end this time around. I hope you lovely people are still enjoying, and thanks for hopping on for the ride. Your feedback means the world to me, and I hope you all are well.
> 
> xoxo

To Frank, it seems that with each passing week Gerard is becoming less and less elusive. Him joining in on their jam sessions might have something to do with that, though.

So, Frank, Ray, Mikey, and Bob _finally_ have a singer to join their ranks. They’re still not _really_ a band, though, as much as Mikey would like to insist they are. They haven’t played a single show, they don’t have a single song under their belt, and hell, they don’t even have a name.

 _Some “band” we are_ , Frank often thinks.

As much as Frank is eager for them to really cut their teeth in the local scene, he also thinks he’d be just as content if they just kept playing covers in his dorm. On every occasion that Gerard opens his mouth to sing, Frank finds himself just as awestruck as the previous time. To put it bluntly, Frank would be delighted if he could just sit and savor Gerard’s talents without having to worry about playing his own instrument. And _that_ was saying something—Frank loves to play.

By this point, Frank is convinced that there’s simply nothing Gerard can’t excel at. He’d call him a show-off if he weren’t so damn infatuated with the guy.

Frank has it bad, and he’s fully aware of it at this point. Not a single shred of doubt is still lingering in his mind regarding this. One question remains, however: _do I want to kiss him, or do I just want to get in his pants?_

♡

“C’mon Gerard, please! I’ll make it up to you in any way I can. I’ll even buy your coffee for a week.”

It’s a Thursday night—practice night. The five of them have basically thrown in the towel in terms of actually playing their instruments tonight, however. So, for now, they’re crammed onto the raggedy sofa in the common area of the dorm room, chatting animatedly over cardboard cartons of lo mein and fried rice. 

Most of them are crammed onto the sofa, that is. Gerard, ever the strange one, has tugged Ray’s desk chair from out of his bedroom, and is perched atop it, legs folded underneath each other. Sadly, the wrong brother is currently occupying Frank’s personal space.

Frank shakes his head as he listens to Mikey whine on and on about his brother not getting him an on-campus job at the library. By the looks of it, with Mikey’s frustration becoming more visible, Gerard is only becoming more humored.

Gerard twirls his fork around in his bowl with an ear-splitting scratch, to which Bob visibly shudders, and he slurps up a singular noodle. 

Gerard chews his mouthful of food quickly (something Frank noticed he had quite the tendency to do), and replies, “I just _can’t_ get you a job. You need to earn it. You blow the interview? That’s on you.”

“Well, I’d rather choke on shards of glass than work at the dining hall.”

In the midst of the brothers’ bickering, Ray cuts in, his expression growing serious for a moment. “Alright, alright, enough talk about jobs. _I_ have some exciting news to share.”

Bob, sitting adjacent to Ray, nudges his shoulder jokingly as he shoots back, “What, you’re finally getting a haircut?”

At this, Ray sighs. He clucks his tongue, and nudges Bob’s shoulder right back, perhaps in a manner a bit more assertive than Bob.

Frank, on one hand getting a kick out of his friends’ back-and-forth retorts, but on the other hand wanting to genuinely hear Ray’s “good news,” inserts himself into the conversation. He had been rather quiet throughout the duration of the evening and previously had been more than happy to slurp down bowlfuls of lo mein. 

Shifting in his seat, Frank turns to Ray, and pipes up, “What’s the news?”

Ray, evidently glad someone was showing interest in what he was about to say, smirks and turns to face the entirety of the room. He beams, and proudly states, “Guess who has a date with Christa from my Creative Writing class this weekend?”

Ray scans his eyes about the room, and his announcement is met with several whoops and hollers from his friends. Frank, for one, knows how much Ray is interested in Christa—hell, he hasn’t shut up about her for weeks. Maybe a date with her would do something to remedy that.

Bob, cutting away from his reserved demeanor for a moment, joins in, cheekily adding, “Ray’s finally getting laid!”

Ray huffs, and shakes his head, his curly hair tumbling about his shoulders as he does so. He seemingly has no response, and filling the silence is Mikey’s voice, as shrill as it gets when he’s even slightly tipsy, using the topic of Ray’s date as an excuse to drone on and on about his own love life and his adoration for Alicia. _Typical_. Frank’s barely ever spoken to her, but with how much information Mikey spits out about her on the daily, Frank thinks he’s probably armed with enough knowledge to write a biography of her.

Then, it’s Gerard’s voice that cuts into the chaos unfolding in the dorm, slicing his brother’s rant in two. Gerard: always the mediator. His tone level and somewhat stern, he eyes his brother from across the Chinese carton-strewn coffee table. “Mikey. Alicia’s a nice girl, I know. But _man_ , enough.”

Mikey, picking up his half-empty beer can from before him, snorts indignantly before taking a hearty swig. Eyeing his brother right back, he argues, “You’re just jealous that _I_ have a girlfriend and _you_ don’t.”

Frank really, really can’t believe what he’s bearing witness to right now. _Is this high school?_ Frank watches for Gerard’s reaction—he simply rolls his eyes, and reaches for his bowl to slurp up another mouthful of noodles. Totally nonchalant. “We’re not doing this right now,” are the only words to pass his lips.

The tension between the brothers in the room is thick and heavy; Ray and Bob are visibly uncomfortable. Both have solemnly returned to their plates of Chinese food, taking their time with chewing and swallowing, as if avoiding any chance to speak.

Frank is picking at a gaping hole, abundant with loose threads, at the knee of his jeans when it’s Mikey who cuts the silence once more, perhaps as a final challenge. Adjusting his crooked glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, he gazes at Gerard, offering, “Why don’t you just get back with Lindsey?”

Like an immediate sucker punch to the gut, Frank instantly feels as if the wind’s been knocked directly out of his body. _Ouch_. He shouldn’t be reacting this way, he knows as much—once again, the same mantra echoes in his conscience of _Why am I like this?_

Frank liked Lindsey a lot when he met her. He’s assured in the fact that he means that wholeheartedly. But, _what does this mean? “Get back” with Lindsey—is Gerard straight?_

He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions here. But, one glance upwards at Gerard’s knee-jerk reaction seems to give him the answer he’s seeking.

Gerard’s previously-cool expression has instantly morphed into being detached and aloof. He sets his bowl down onto his lap, Ray and Bob still entirely silent as he does so. 

The tension in the room and Frank’s nerves extremely palpable, Gerard’s only words are: “Not now.”

♡

It hadn’t been more than five minutes until the tension resulting from Gerard and Mikey’s interaction had withered away. 

The five of them were once again in good spirits, more beers being tossed back and laughter echoing throughout the common room. Even Gerard, who had prior looked just about ready to snap, was joining in on the fun.

Frank, too, is trying to move on from the evening’s earlier occurrences, but his gut keeps consistently telling him _no no no_. 

He needs some water.

Stealing away from the others without much notice, Frank pads over to the miniature fridge over by the door to the common room, in the farthest corner. Beyond feeling parched, Frank also thinks he needs a moment to himself. His thoughts running rampant, he requires adequate time to process everything.

This, _all_ of this, is a lot. And he’s feeling a bit woozy from the beer, which isn’t aiding in his situation.

Tugging the fridge’s cool, smooth door open, he tucks his arm inside the appliance and tugs out a plastic bottle of water. Shutting the door just as quickly as he opened it, Frank places his fingers onto the bottle’s cap and twists gently. The bottle’s top pops open with a barely-audible _crack_ , and Frank turns on his heel to face his friends on the far side of the room as he lifts the bottle’s rim to his lips to take a swig.

He turns to face his friends, as well as Gerard’s face appearing from out of practically nowhere, right behind him.

Frank, immediately startled, takes a deep breath and steadies himself, not wanting to spill his opened water. “Jesus fuck, Gerard,” he mumbles, making an attempt to regulate his heightened heartbeat. He gulps in a few breaths before hesitantly sipping his water. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry, I thought you must’ve heard me coming,” Gerard apologizes, his eyes drifting away from Frank’s. He raises his right hand to scratch behind his ear gently. He continues, “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

 _Talk to me about something?_ Frank wonders to himself. _About what? The Lindsey thing?_

Frank twists the cap back onto his bottle of water, and rests it atop the fridge. He’s trying to appear as casual and nonchalant as possible here, despite his anxiety, but he’s not quite sure how successful his charade is.

Meeting eyes with Gerard, Frank absentmindedly runs his tongue over his lip ring, as he frequently does when he’s nervous. And, his foot starts tapping. Again. _Taptaptaptaptaptap_. “Yeah, what’s up?”

A meek smile comes across Gerard’s face as he begins to speak again, his tone hushed. “I just realized I never properly thanked you for taking care of me that night when I was shitfaced out of my mind.” His eyes crinkle, and Frank’s heartbeat goes crazy again. “Nobody’s ever done that for me before.”

Frank feels like he’s going to throw up. Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. He rapidly peers over Gerard’s shoulder, and it looks as if Ray, Bob, and Mikey are none the wiser to what’s happening over by the fridge. _Good_.

“Hey, it’s no problem, man,” Frank laughs weakly. He places his left hand on the top of the fridge behind him, partly in an effort to keep up his friendly appearance, partly to stay off incoming dizziness. So, Gerard really _did_ remember that night.

“You’re a good friend, Frank,” are Gerard’s final words before he starts on his way back to the others. “I’d do the same for you.”

Feeling as confused as he’s ever been in his entire life, Frank is left just as breathless as he was before. 

♡

_Gerard is lying beside him, and everything is as it should be._

_Like a drumbeat without any end, his heart is sounding off without any particular rhythm. Thudthudthudthudthudthud._

_He rolls over onto his side, and his eyes meet Gerard’s, and everything feels right. Everything has come into place._

_Their lips finally meet, and everything is as it should be._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know this chapter is a short one, but, I just wanted to upload something, and I felt this scene was better off left on its own, too. 
> 
> I've been getting a bit busy with my job again, but don't think I've forgotten about you guys! I'm still super excited about seeing this story through, and you guys' love for my writing makes it feel even more worth it. So, enjoy this little "mini chapter," and next time around, I'll have something more substantial!
> 
> As always, lots of love and thanks for reading xoxo

And it was all a dream, as they say.

A dream that recurred quite frequently. Sometimes, these dreams were much akin to the one Frank had the very first time: he’d kiss Gerard, and his body would be overcome with a feeling of immense warmth. Other times, however, they’d be more intense, and in those moments, Frank was entirely grateful that he didn’t have to share a bedroom with Ray or Bob. 

Frank would wake up at some ungodly hour, frustrated and sadly alone, and he’d finish himself off before willing himself back to sleep. It was routine.

As the semester dragged on, Frank was beginning to see much, much more of Gerard, and the two had become closer. Gerard often cooed about how glad he was to have Frank as a friend, and their friendship was truly blossoming.

Despite that, Frank didn’t know of many people who had wet dreams starring their friends.

Being in such constant contact with Gerard was like a double-edged sword. The band would all come together to play once weekly, and Frank continued to visit Gerard’s place once weekly, too, to keep practicing drawing (which, apparently, was working to Frank’s benefit—Professor Armstrong’s praise for Frank’s improvement was substantial). 

Frank admittedly even still frequented the library during hours when he knew Gerard would be working. He doesn’t know why he tortures himself like this, but he feels like he almost can’t help himself, and his better judgement has gone flying out the window.

Frank is ecstatic for all this time spent with Gerard, but he's still lacking a definitive answer regarding the Lindsey situation. Yet, he’s still mostly convinced that Gerard, at least romantically, is out of his grasp. 

At least they have a name for their band now.

♡

“It’s perfect! Just put a ‘my’ at the very front, and _boom_ , there’s a sick band name.”

Flanked by both Way brothers, Frank is curled up in his favorite recliner positioned in the upper mezzanine of the library. His laptop is at his side, and Gerard, not working for once, is plopped down in the chair on his right-hand side.

The two of them had decided to meet in the library rather than at Gerard’s place for their art lesson this week, for what reason, Frank had no clue. His lack of knowledge served no other purpose than to make him anxious—was it because of the Lindsey thing that he still had no answers regarding?—but Mikey’s current rambling is acting as a perfect distraction from his frayed nerves. And, it was a distraction from the fact that Gerard looked particularly handsome today: he didn’t know if he could manage to draw without drooling all over his notebook like a lovesick puppy.

Much to Gerard’s dismay, Mikey had actually ended up scoring the library job. He wouldn’t stop gloating in front of Gerard for weeks. Gerard, on the other hand, was rather forlorn that his one weekly opportunity for peace and quiet had been dashed out the window, due to his brother now being his coworker.

Mikey, lingering just before the two of them, has his copper-hued, crooked nametag pinned onto his Anthrax tee shirt haphazardly. Held in one slender hand, of all things, is a book, one he’d probably snatched up from the return cart while reshelving. 

The plastic covering stretched across the book’s binding crinkles loudly as Mikey shifts it around, flipping it open in his palm. The book’s cover is a fluorescent yellow, reminiscent of a highlighter Frank probably has buried in the bottom of his backpack, but perhaps more strange is the individual present on the cover, who looks like a wannabe member of the Blue Man Group.

Frank’s eyes hover back to Gerard, whose own eyes are narrowed, as if enveloped in thought. “ _That’s_ the book you got our band name from?” Gerard asks, his tone rising.

“Yeah, it’s a collection of novellas by Irvine Welsh called _Ecstasy_ ,” Mikey starts, his eyes beneath his glasses going wide in excitement, “but the subtitle is _Three Tales of Chemical Romance_.”

Frank and Gerard share a look following Mikey’s statement, and Frank is under the impression that they’re sharing the same thought. _Mikey really might be onto something_. 

“So,” Frank replies, “you’re suggesting we take the phrase ‘chemical romance,’ and put the word ‘my’ in front of it…”

“My Chemical Romance,” Gerard finishes, adding onto Frank’s words. 

Mikey nods happily at this, his smile perhaps wider than Frank’s ever seen it. Book still in hand, he raises it to his line of vision, and grins, saying, “Thanks, Irvine Welsh, for a cool band name.”

Glancing back at Gerard once more, the two nod at each other, and once more too, Frank feels all warm and tingly inside. 

Here they were. _My Chemical Romance_. A proper band, now. 

Frank thinks he can add this moment to his list of things currently starting to look up for him. Because really, he’s thrilled. But, this still solves nothing regarding the whole Gerard thing.

Now, if only he could stop having those pesky dreams.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, I'm back with a new chapter! I apologize that it took a tad bit longer to update this time, but I hope you all will find it worth it.
> 
> This chapter is an exciting one, so get ready, friends! I'm not sure how much longer this fic will be, but we'll see where I get with it. Anyhow, thank you always for all the love, and I hope you all are well!

Frank’s been in enough bands to know there’s nothing like those first-show jitters.

Following the adoption of the band name Mikey had suggested, and a handful of weeks’ worth of practice, My Chemical Romance had gotten booked for their very first gig, all thanks to Geoff and his seemingly endless connections in the local scene. Thursday weren’t playing this time, but rather, My Chemical Romance were joined by Lindsey’s new band, Mindless Self Indulgence, and Pete’s band, Fall Out Boy.

This time, too, they weren’t playing in Geoff’s place, but instead, a home owned by several of Alicia’s friends and classmates from Berklee. Frank was thankful that they were slated to play first, because quite frankly, he didn’t feel quite up to wrenching Mikey from Alicia’s grasp. Once they finished playing, the two of them could suck faces as they pleased, and Frank would gladly keep himself at a safe distance.

Much like Geoff’s set-up, Frank and the rest of the band were instructed to cart their instruments to the center of the most spacious room in the house. Frank slings Pansy across his torso as he turns to watch Bob fix up his drum kit, attempting to ignore the considerable crowd of bodies that’s already packed together into the room to watch their set.

Frank thinks that maybe if he stares at the ceiling for the entirety of their set, his nerves will be quelled. Or, maybe, he’ll just look at Gerard. Either will suffice. 

The very moment Gerard crosses his mind, the man himself comes waltzing up to his bandmates, flanked by Lindsey, who had taken it upon herself to mix in with the crowd after passing through the doorway the pair had emerged from. Lindsey, from the mass of people, shoots Frank a radiant smile and waves.

Frank’s smile, in return, is considerably weaker, but it’s all he can manage to muster at the moment. He really likes Lindsey and values her friendship, he truly does. But, his pre-show anxiety is not combining well with the fact that he’s becoming even more convinced of Gerard’s romantic involvement with her with each passing day.

As Gerard turns on his heel to face his bandmates, eyebrows raised, Frank feels nauseous. Maybe he will just stare at the ceiling.

“I’m ready, how about you all?” Gerard asks, rather enthusiastically. 

Mikey, Ray, and Bob all appear to nod in unison. Frank’s response is a brief thumbs-up. He supposes he’s as ready as he possibly can be—he’s just hoping he doesn’t retch his dinner back up onto his shoes.

And, with that, Gerard whirls back around to face the students standing before them, and, for the first time, he speaks the following statement into the microphone.

“We’re My Chemical Romance, thanks for coming out.”

♡

The thunderous applause that greeted them once they finished playing made it all worth it. Kind of.

Half of Frank’s problems for the evening have been solved. Frank, much like his bandmates, was elated over the immensely positive reaction given to them by the crowd. Although My Chemical Romance only had three original songs under their belt, and the rest of the songs they performed were covers, it still felt really fucking good to be praised in such a way, especially in their local scene.

So, Show Number One was a success. Even _if_ Frank barely skated by without fainting from sheer nervousness.

From the very moment Frank and the others had discarded their instruments and begun to depart the “stage,” Mindless Self Indulgence immediately took their spot, making quick work of setting up their own instruments. 

Peculiarly, Lindsey, bass in hand, didn’t stop to chat with them as they briefly crossed paths. Rather, she quickly located her spot, and instantly hunched over to plug her bass into the amp behind her, wisps of her jet-black hair hanging over her eyes.

Lindsey, Frank guesses, truly has her “game face” on, now.

Frank’s bandmates, however, are currently the exact opposite.

One look beyond the first few rows of attendees and Frank is able to immediately spy Ray, Bob, and Gerard towards the back of the room, flanked by none other than Pete, hovering around the propped-open cooler on the floor. All four, unshockingly, have some sort of beverage in their hands.

And Mikey? He’s nowhere to be found, almost as if he’s vanished. Frank decides he’ll chalk that up to Alicia’s presence, though.

Frank’s back turned to where the makeshift stage is, he can now already hear the booming sound of Mindless Self Indulgence’s set beginning, with Lindsey’s basslines being distinct and thick as mud—as all good bass truly should sound.

Much like Gerard, Frank is now thoroughly convinced that there’s nothing Lindsey isn’t good at. Perhaps that’s why she and Gerard are as close as they are, thick as thieves: talent attracts talent, Frank supposes.

But, he’s made the executive decision for himself that he’s not going to bother himself with that for the remainder of the evening.

Instead? He’s going to have some drinks, celebrate a first show well done, and maybe regret it all in the morning.

So, with that, Frank starts on his way, pushing through the swaths of people, towards his friends and the promise of watery beer aplenty.

♡

Live music, Frank thinks, always sounds all the much shittier when you’re overhearing it through the muffled barrier of a bathroom wall.

The last time Frank was alone with Gerard in a bathroom was months ago, when he took it upon himself to nurse his friend through a particularly rough drunken night, holding his hair back as vomit endlessly spewed from his mouth. This time, however, there’s no sticky vomit, just the rich scent of booze-laden breath, and the musty remnants of day-old cigarette smoke.

Gerard wanted to talk to him. For which reason, Frank had no clue; to add to the baffling nature of the situation, their departure occurred smack-dab in the middle of Mindless Self Indulgence’s performance.

And, of course, a bathroom seemed to be the singular place in which they could find any semblance of privacy for the discussion Gerard wanted to engage in.

Frank’s mind is fuzzy and somewhat scattered, but he’s not so gone that he can’t form a coherent sentence. Placing his half-empty can of beer onto the counter of the stained sink, Frank ensures his eyes are level with Gerard’s before beginning to speak.

“So, what was it that you wanted to talk about?”

Gerard is wordless, if only for a moment. He’s been drinking, too, but Frank is unsure of how drunk his friend truly is. Certainly not as bad as that first night, but still, Frank is none the wiser.

Gerard, strangely enough then, begins to inch closer to Frank, his sneakers tapping gently on the tiled bathroom floor. Frank, if for a moment, is somewhat alarmed, his body instinctively warming and tensing at the gesture before him.

He doesn’t know why Gerard is insisting on getting so close. Despite the music blaring just beyond the locked door, Frank can still hear Gerard crystal-clear.

Then, Gerard halts in his tracks, just shy of a foot before Frank. And Frank doesn’t think he’s ever seen Gerard, usually oozing confidence, ever seem so timid. He’s gazing down at his toes before he appears to muster enough willpower to make eye contact with Frank once more.

Frank easily catches a whiff of Gerard’s boozy breath as he parts his lips to respond to Frank’s initial question.

Gerard, in earnest, places his hands into the pockets of his jeans, as if unsure where to place them. He swallows thickly, and starts, “So, I really have been struggling with how to tell you this.”

Hearing that, Frank’s heart rate skyrockets. Frank’s nerves have made another arrival, and unconsciously mirroring Gerard’s own fidgety actions, he shoves his hands into his pockets, too.

Frank blinks, and simply says, “What is it?”

“Frank, I think I… I think I like you.”

And there it is. There it fucking is.

Frank’s already-clouded mind grows more foggy in response to Gerard’s revelation. In many ways, it’s all Frank could have wanted to hear from Gerard, but several questions remain unanswered.

_Is it the alcohol: is he just drunk? Even worse, is he possibly sneaking past Lindsey?_

Frank doesn’t know. He can’t even reply before Gerard’s next statement comes quickly following.

Gerard, lips curled up slightly, adds weakly, “I hope I haven’t made you feel weird, or anything.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Frank.”

Frank’s next move is instant, and perhaps beyond his better judgement. Removing his hands from his pockets, he’s quick to say, “No, no, Gerard, I’m not uncomfortable _at all_.”

And then, Frank goes totally unconscious to the sounds echoing beyond the bathroom door, and he becomes convinced that everything has gone totally silent, save for Gerard’s sharp inhaling and exhaling.

And then, Frank is surging forward, and wordlessly, he attaches his lips to Gerard’s.

Gerard seems to jolt slightly at this, but soon relaxes, even raising a hand to cup Frank’s chin and draw him closer. Frank allows his eyelids to flutter shut, and is aware of nothing beyond Gerard’s lips, Gerard’s tongue, his hand placed on Gerard’s pale neck, and _Gerard_.

And they don’t stop until, unfortunately, both hear a sharp rapping on the door, likely from someone needing to piss.

Frank, weak (but in the best way possible), is drinking in everything about this moment, his stomach doing leaps upon seeing the bright smile present on Gerard’s face after breaking the kiss.

As the two depart the bathroom, vacating the space for the next occupant (who looked rather peeved off), Frank is mindless to the possible ramifications of their actions. All he knows is that he needs more.

 _Nobody needs to know_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Time for another chapter! Thanks, as always, for sticking with me, guys.
> 
> I think I'm only going to have one or two more chapters following this one. I know this fic wasn't crazy long, but, there's no need for me to stretch out the plot much further than that. But, on the bright side, I do have some ideas floating around in my head for new fics to work on upon finishing this one, and who knows, maybe I'll even consider a sequel to this one if you guys are into that idea!
> 
> Enough rambling from me. Enjoy the read, and thanks everyone for your continued support and feedback! xoxo

Boston winters were nothing short of a fucking nightmare.

Puffy snowflakes would fall from the darkened skies in sticky tufts, piling up on the roads and sidewalks with such a ferocity and intensity that sometimes not even the most dedicated of snowplow drivers could tidy up in time. The inches would add up in steadily increasing increments, and within a week or so, the snow would freeze over into slick patches of ice, and then soon following, mounds of muddy slush. And so the cycle continued.

Snow days at the university were a rarity, too, exceptions residing within the cases of the worst snowstorms imaginable. As such, every December, Frank would tug on the thickest boots he owned, and would layer up as much as humanly possible, in order to suffice for his lack of a legitimate winter coat.

With all things considered, shitty weather be damned, at the very least, this change in environment signaled at least one positive to come: the end of the semester, and a month’s worth of holiday vacation.

That, and the arrival of My Chemical Romance’s last show for the semester, and a subtle warning that the spring would be Gerard’s final semester at the university before graduating.

With that, Frank currently has two urgent tasks: scrambling together a way to pass his art class, and figuring out what the hell to make of his current situation with his band’s singer.

♡

“You’ll do great. I believe in you.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say, Mister Art Major.”

It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and a bitterly cold one at that, during the last week of the semester. An hour prior, Frank had trudged his way through his final exam for art class, his hopes not entirely high enough for a grade capable of salvaging his entire performance in the class. At the very least, however, the drawing Gerard had assisted him with received the less-than-stellar final grade of a B, albeit rather high in accordance with Professor Armstrong’s tough grading. 

And currently, Frank’s stomach is still twisting and turning, his conscience unable to wander from the idea of the next final he has to take tomorrow. Thankfully, it’s his last one.

Suddenly, Frank feels a cold set of fingers run across his upper back, and he startles. He blinks, and from where he’s lying down in his bed, he cranes back his neck to peer at Gerard, positioned vertically against him. It’s rather close quarters on the twin-sized mattress in Frank’s room, and typically, he’d be elated at the thought of being so physically close to Gerard. 

Yet, he can’t get his mind off that exam. Right now, he’s hypothesizing the ruin of his GPA and the downfall of his entire academic career. No big deal, right?

This is also without mentioning that Frank had transitioned very quickly from simply having secret makeout sessions with Gerard to fully cuddling with him on a routine basis, an activity the two of them became swiftly accustomed to. It was all very odd.

From his position on his side, Frank feels Gerard inch closer to him, the warmth of his body in contrast with the icy temperature of his hands. Then, his tone barely above a whisper, his breath ghosting right across Frank’s ear, Gerard says, “Sorry. My hands are like icicles.”

Despite his anxiety, Frank can’t help but chuckle at Gerard, and as if by cue, he rolls back over to his other side, this time to look Gerard in the face. And, as expected, Gerard looks as if he were waiting for Frank to do so, and his lips are stretched out into a goofy, lopsided grin.

Frank outstretches one of his arms to reach forward and grab Gerard’s hand, his own being relatively clammy.

And _oh God_ , Gerard is fucking beautiful. Frank’s not often one to be sappy, but his heart is thumping rapidly at the sight before him. Gerard, with his black hair splayed out onto the rumpled pillow beneath his head, one slender hand on his chest, the other now twined together with Frank’s. His cheeks are flushed a pale pink, yet, Frank thinks that could also be a result of the toasty thick sweater he’s donning today.

And Frank is staring. 

_But, this all doesn’t mean anything, right?_ The two of them hadn’t discussed Gerard’s proclamation of feelings since the night of. Which, Frank thinks, is all for the better.

Gerard was probably shitfaced, anyways. And likely still has a girlfriend, which makes Frank feel all the more scummy. What a fucking predicament to be in during the midst of finals week and the oncoming holiday season.

“Do I have something on my face?” Gerard asks, his lips turning.

Frank’s breath catches in his throat, and he swallows thickly. Looking Gerard blankly in the face, attempting to stifle the blush ready to spread across his cheeks any moment now, he forces a rather unconvincing laugh.

“No, no,” Frank replies, “I’m just thinking. Kinda spaced out.”

“You’re always overthinking. Just let it be.”

“Did you seriously just use a Beatles quote to try to comfort me?”

Gerard rolls his eyes at this, a bemused smirk marking his expression. He playfully knocks at Frank’s chest, scooting closer all the while.

Teasing aside, Frank can’t help but think that Gerard is right. At the very least, in regards to exams, but that’s only half of his problems, all things considered.

“No, I don’t even like The Beatles,” Gerard jabs rather defiantly, his vision set with Frank’s. “But, what I do know is that you need to stop thinking about your exams, and refocus your attention back on kissing me.”

“A bold one, you are,” Frank answers, an eyebrow raised, “but, really, say no more.”

And within just a moment’s notice, the pair are tangled up together once more, their lips meeting in a manner that sets Frank’s nerves ablaze. Rather than cupping Gerard’s chin this time, Frank’s hand immediately flies to the other man’s chest, Gerard’s own hand finding its home on Frank’s exposed hip.

Frank shudders as he feels the first sensation of Gerard’s tongue slipping into his mouth, and in between kisses, Frank experiments with nibbling on his bottom lip, drinking in the glorious muffled sounds elicited in response.

And then, _oh fuck_ , Gerard is shifting from his previous position of lying on his side, and then he’s grabbing at Frank’s bony wrists, pinning him down with a vigor that he’d never imagined Gerard to be capable of. 

Gerard, his face aglow, is straddling Frank, several clumps of hair hanging in his eyes. His breathing is somewhat labored, and his mouth is deliciously close to Frank’s, and his breath is ripe with the lingering scent of this morning’s coffee. The smile on his face is undeniable, in fact, it’s infectious as all hell, and Frank is gazing up at him as if he were the fucking moon and stars. Frank can’t number the times he’s fantasized about this very thing occurring.

It’s in this moment that Frank, for the first time, truly thinks that he loves him.

When Gerard’s hand begins to inevitably trail down Frank’s chest, towards his tummy, and down to the waistline of his jeans, Frank doesn’t stifle the groans spilling past his lips, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

He fucking wants, _yearns_ , for Gerard to touch him like that, he wants to touch Gerard like that, and it’s all too much for his brain to handle, and he feels like he’s going to possibly combust, and—

And it stops.

Frank’s fingers are wrapped, clenched around Gerard’s hand, motionless above the fly of his jeans. He still wants Gerard like fucking crazy, but they can’t do this. They just fucking can’t.

Frank’s conscience is eating away at him, wracked with guilt and shame, because really, Lindsey doesn’t fucking deserve this. Nobody does.

“I’m sorry Gerard, I can’t,” Frank sighs, as Gerard rolls off from atop him, “we can’t.”

Gerard, sitting up on the mattress, blinks and nods, his expression becoming unreadable, his flushed skin returning to its normal muted shade. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Frank wants to cry. But he won’t, not in front of Gerard. But even if he had no reservations with such a thing, he still imagines that the tears wouldn’t come, anyways.

Hoisting himself up from his bed, Frank is wordless as he pads his way to the door, on his way to the bathroom, all the while pondering what had just transpired.

He doesn’t look back at Gerard, who’s still planted on his mattress, who is likely all the more clueless.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a row? Crazy stuff. I've been on a real writing marathon this week, thanks to me getting more days than usual off from work. 
> 
> I'm planning on having the next chapter be the last one. I know things in the story seem pretty grim right now, but, have faith! No spoilers though, of course ;-)
> 
> As always, lots of love, and thanks for reading, and thanks for all the feedback xoxo

“Dude, I feel like my balls are going to freeze off.”

“Hush. You act like you’ve never seen a snowstorm before.”

It’s the last Friday of the semester, and it’s being christened by perhaps the most snow the city of Boston has seen thus far this winter. It’s no blizzard, that’s for certain, but the surrounding air is at a temperature that chills you to the bone, and the sidewalks are scarcely plowed, the only imprints upon the dense layer of snow covering them being the repeated markings of footprints.

It’s also the evening of My Chemical Romance’s last show of the semester, and rather than in someone’s home this time, it’s occurring in one of the dilapidated old VFW halls in the center of one of the city’s boroughs. Its parking lot is _hardly_ a parking lot, merely a few delineated spaces dotted at the front of the building, and Frank is considering it a blessing that he was able to secure a spot.

Especially following traversing through the city in such harsh conditions like this, the other members of his band packed into Bertha alongside him like a tin of sardines to boot. Mikey’s babbling nearly made him lose focus no fewer than five times.

And then there was Gerard. Sandwiched in the back seat in between Ray and Bob, he’s in great fucking spirits despite what had gone down the afternoon prior. He was chatting as animatedly as could be, clearly amped up for their upcoming performance.

Frank doesn’t know why he’s so chipper.

And now, they’re all making a concerted effort to lug all of their instruments out of Frank’s miniscule trunk and into the venue, all the way through the slick, wet snow.

Accompanying the snowflakes falling from the murky sky is a mighty wind, one that bites at Frank’s exposed cheeks as it goes howling past. The temperature is also freezing enough to the point that Frank can see Mikey’s breath ghost past his lips as he elicits complaint after complaint about the conditions.

Frank rolls his eyes and retorts back to Mikey, “You know, you could help us unpack all of this rather than acting like a disgruntled meteorologist.”

Frank fishes his loose hand into his popped-open trunk, latching his fingers around the familiar handle for his guitar case. As he does so, Gerard appears from practically nowhere and reaches his own hand inside to grab something to lug in, despite not having an instrument of his own to carry.

 _Damn it_ , Frank thinks, _why does he have to be so annoyingly charming and considerate?_ Following yesterday’s incident, Frank’s become all but convinced that he needs to wrench Gerard from every corner of his mind. At least romantically.

Frank just wishes that Gerard didn’t make it so hard for him.

Mikey, mirroring Frank’s actions and rolling his own eyes, slithers in between Gerard and Frank to reach into the trunk himself, tugging out his bass. He shoots a look at his brother, and Frank swears he sees him mouth something unintelligible to Gerard.

Gerard clearly sees this, but doesn’t give off much of a visible reaction at all. Frank, choosing to ignore this, gives a quick cursory glance across his bandmates in order to ensure that they’re all armed with what’s necessary for the show. 

No sooner than Frank slams Bertha’s trunk shut with a _click_ , Ray is piping up, ever the leader, saying, “It feels like it’s fucking Antarctica out here. Let’s get moving, boys.”

♡

The capacity of the interior of the VFW hall is relatively packed, something the scarce parking lot gave no indication towards. If Frank’s memory serves him right, then this just may be their largest show yet, size-wise.

Sure, Frank had gotten back into the routine of performing again, but for _this many people?_ And, he was supposed to play despite all of his Gerard-related anxiety? No pressure whatsoever.

At least this place has an actual legitimate stage.

Peeking out at the mass of people from behind the stage’s dusty blue velvet curtains, Frank instantly spies numerous familiar faces. Geoff’s here, and so is Pete, and Alicia (no shock there). And, so is Christa, the girl Ray’s been seeing for quite some time now, and Lindsey.

Frank decides that if he gets queasy, he’ll just look at them. 

Or, on second thought, maybe he’ll just focus on Geoff. Merely the sight of Lindsey is making his stomach do backflips and twist in guilt at the idea of what he’s been doing with her boyfriend. 

Frank thinks he might just be the biggest asshole that’s ever dwelled on planet Earth.

Gulping, Pansy strapped across his torso, Frank fiddles around in the back pocket of his black jeans, double-checking that he’s armed with an ample supply of picks for the evening’s performance. Their set is slated to start any moment now, as signaled by the muffled announcement made by the previous band’s frontman that Frank hears through the thick fabric of the curtains.

He thinks he can scarcely piece out something along the lines of, “This is our last song, but let’s give it up for the other bands on the bill tonight! We’ve been Taking Back Sunday, thank you all so much!”

“They sound great, don’t you think?”

Frank gasps and startles, all before he snaps around on his heel and sees Gerard, who, once again, has snuck up on him, quiet as a mouse. Frank noticed he had quite the tendency to do that, whether purposeful or not.

Frank pushes out a mouthful of air and readjusts his guitar across his chest. “Jesus man, you spooked me.”

“Sorry. Just call me the ‘Phantom of the VFW Hall.’”

For once, Frank doesn’t make a single peep in response to one of Gerard’s goofy jokes. Not even a mere giggle. He stays firmly planted in place, and his expression is blank, save for him absentmindedly scratching behind his ear.

“Yeah. They sound good.”

“What’s wrong? You seem kinda on edge,” Gerard offers, his eyes narrowing in concern. He begins to creep forward, slowly closing the gap between him and Frank, but, for every step Gerard takes forward, Frank wills himself to take another back.

Frank, shaking his head repeatedly, simply replies, “I don’t want another hug or kiss, Gerard. I told you this yesterday. We can’t do this.”

“I thought that was just in regards to anything sexual,” Gerard prods, his tone rising in confusion. As if on cue, he takes a note out of Frank’s book and inches backwards himself. 

Frank knows Gerard will try his damndest to not make it obvious, but Frank can tell by his tone and his expression that he’s hurt. 

Frank is utilizing every fiber of his being at the current moment to not just shout at Gerard, to tell him to fuck off. He’s truly willing himself not to. 

Frank, in all sincerity, feels like a pawn Gerard used to commit infidelity against Lindsey with. And he wants _no part_ of it.

But, annoyingly, Frank is still terribly, awfully in love with him.

Frank prides himself on being someone who isn’t prone to crying, but he’s willing himself not to as he utters the following words. “Is this all some sort of game to you, Gerard?” he asks, his eyes growing wider with each syllable. “Lindsey doesn’t deserve this. Hell, _I_ don’t deserve this.”

Gerard frowns, and lowers his face to the palm of his hand. For a moment, he turns towards the darkly-hued curtain, and, without raising his head back up, he mumbles through his fingers, “Deserve _what_?”

Frank’s not holding back this time. Not at all.

“I know you’re cheating on Lindsey. With me.”

The speed at which Gerard snaps his head back up is somewhat unbelievable. His eyebrows drawn together in some kind of emotion Frank can’t decipher, Gerard huffs out in frustration and furiously shoves his hands into his pockets.

He’s teetering on his heels, too.

“You do know I’m not dating Lindsey, right?” Gerard spits out, the condescension and venom lacing his tone palpable.

Frank, who only seconds ago was filled with rage and ready to go into battle at the drop of a hat, was now left feeling confused and clueless. Still glued to his spot on the creaky wood-paneled floor of the stage, his eyes wander to his sneaker-clad feet. 

Frank wants to disappear, and Gerard doesn’t even give Frank the time to offer up a statement before he’s continuing on, the hurt in Gerard’s voice plummeting at Frank like knives.

“We’re exes, but we’re just great friends now. Ever imagine that, huh?” Gerard rants, his breath labored. He refuses to take a single step closer to the other man in his vicinity. “God forbid I actually liked, _liked_ you, Frank.”

No sooner than Gerard’s done, Taking Back Sunday are playing their final notes just beyond the curtain, and Gerard is turning on his heel, enveloping himself in the darkness beyond as he disappears elsewhere backstage.

And, once more, Frank is alone. Desperately and hopelessly alone.

The time is now, Frank supposes, for him to go play his heart out.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, and that's it! I'm so proud of myself for seeing this fic through, and I'm rather pleased with the end result. So, I hope you've all enjoyed reading along, and the support I've received on this fic has far surpassed any piece of writing I've uploaded in the past. I really can't thank you guys enough. If any of you are interested in maybe a sequel(?) to this, I'd be willing to consider it!
> 
> In other news, I'd like to plug the next Frerard fic I'm planning on writing, while I'm here. It's probably going to be a canon-compliant, real-life one, probably mostly focusing on Projekt Rev. It definitely won't be as long as this one, but I already have some ideas rolling around in my noggin for it. So, if you've found yourself liking my writing style, and want to see what else I have Frank and Gerard get up to, then definitely keep an eye out for it!
> 
> Enough blabbering on my end. Thanks again, and I hope y'all like this epilogue! xoxo

Frank awakes the following morning with a dull, throbbing ache in his temple. His blankets are tangled up in his limbs, snaking around his legs, and, above all else, every inch and crevice of his body is slick with perspiration.

His throat too, is dry, perhaps resulting from the unforgiving winter air, perhaps resulting from the sobs and tears that fell from his eyes and lips like a monsoon the moment he was able to regain any semblance of privacy.

He remembers last night. And he stares at the blank, colorless ceiling of his bedroom for a good five minutes before he attempts to drag himself into the shower.

♡

Bertha’s tank is just about empty, and the scarlet fuel tank light is blinking angrily. Luckily, Frank doesn’t need much gas at all for where he’s off to today.

Last night, Gerard refused to so much as look in Frank’s direction while they played.

Frank thinks he saw him break once, however, during “Early Sunsets Over Monroeville,” one of their originals.

Sliding a cigarette in between his lips and lighting it, Frank shakily places his toes onto the gas pedal. It squeaks, likely due to age, and he peels out onto the slushy blacktop roads beyond the limits of campus.

As Frank solemnly puffs mouthful after mouthful of ashy smoke out the open slit of the driver’s-side window, he takes notice of the CD he’s left in the disc slot, as he outstretches his fingers to thumb at the plastic volume knob.

Morrissey’s _Bona Drag_ compilation album, one of Gerard’s favorites.

Frank’s conscience goes foggy and his eyes latch onto the road beyond him, in a manner near hypnotic, as Morrissey’s buttery voice croons to him from the stereo.

_“I’m writing this to say_

_In a gentle way_

_Thank you, but no_

_I will live my life as I_

_Will undoubtedly die alone.”_

♡

Gerard’s car isn’t in the driveway.

Sneaking into a curbside spot right by the front door, Frank pauses and hesitates before unclicking his seatbelt. He lights another cigarette.

Maybe Gerard just went to Dunkin’ Donuts for a coffee.

_Please be here. Please be here. Pleasebeherepleasebehere._

As Frank steps out of the car and locks it with a short _beep_ , his thoughts are swirling. On the journey here, he’d played out a number of separate ways to approach talking to Gerard. He felt like he were going to be talking to someone he had never met before, but, given what had gone down before the show last night, that might as well be correct.

_If all else fails, just drop to your knees and plead for forgiveness._

He ascends the staircase leading up to the front door, one foot after the other. One by one. The steps had become doubly creaky with the added weight of ice and snow holding them down. 

The creakiness, it seems, also prevents Frank from having to rap on the door.

He’s only three-quarters of his way up to the front porch when a familiar set of eyes peeks out the door’s window, narrowed and curious. The doorknob tumbles, and the peeling wooden door parts.

“You really hurt him, you know.”

Frank puffs out another mouthful of ashy smoke, having barely moved past the top stair. “Where is he, Lindsey?”

Lindsey, hair tumbling down to her shoulders, her daily red lipstick absent from her face, peers down at the cell phone in her hands, and then gazes back up at Frank, her vision level with his. 

“Just missed him,” she shrugs, her face going serious. “He lives here year-round, but he just left like twenty minutes ago to go back to his parents’ place to celebrate Christmas with the family.”

Frank can now add a lack of punctuality to the list of things he’s proved to be an utter failure at this semester. He stubs out his cigarette and lights another, tugging his near-empty pack of Marlboros out of the right-hand pocket of his denim jacket. He offers one to Lindsey; she refuses.

“Can you tell him I’m sorry, Linds?” Frank asks in earnest.

“I think you’d better tell him that yourself.”

And then, quiet. Frank knows she’s right. Behind them, snow has begun to fall again, the flakes fluffy and bright and heavy.

“Listen Frank, I’ve gotta go. Got a tea kettle on the stovetop,” Lindsey quips, flashing a rapid look behind her, “but I’ll see you next semester, I guess.”

“Yeah. Merry Christmas.”

♡

**_Christmas Eve, a week later. Frank’s house, New Jersey._ **

Frank hasn’t heard from Gerard all week. None of his texts or calls returned.

What a lousy Christmas this is shaping up to be.

Earlier in the day, Frank had invited his childhood best friend, Jamia, over to exchange Christmas gifts over steaming hot mugs of cocoa. The beverages were thick and rich and chocolatey, in all the best ways possible, but Frank barely touched his until the miniature marshmallows swimming inside it had practically disintegrated.

Jamia called Frank a real Grinch, but, paramount to all, in true Jamia fashion, she recited some artsy quote that, as Frank would never admit, actually rang true.

“It’s an anonymous quote,” she had said, hot chocolate mustache dripping on her upper lip, “and it goes something like this: ‘Sometimes two people have to fall apart to realize how much they need to fall back together.’”

Frank called her corny. 

But now, he’s in his car, in the middle of a blustering snowstorm, ready to drive back to Massachusetts, with a handwritten note in the passenger seat that begins with the words, “I’ve missed you.”


End file.
